My dad planned the Camino. 🎒 I invited myself.
I thought it would bring us closer. I thought we’d walk together, talk, figure each other out over 900km. That’s not really what happened. By the end, we barely walked together – saw each other in the morning, met up at night.
Some days, I was frustrated by that. I wanted more.
One day I overheard him talking to a stranger. When he mentioned he was widowed, his voice broke a little. 💔 And something shifted in me – quietly, without making a big deal of it.
This was his journey. Not mine.
Though I didn’t know it then, I was grieving too. Mine just took longer to surface.
He needed that walk in a way I couldn’t fully understand. And there I was, wanting us time, making it about something it was never meant to be.
I wasn’t always easy to walk with either. But I started seeing him differently – not just as my dad, but as a person carrying something heavy.
One of the things that stayed with me most – little notes he left along the trail. Small things. Just enough to say I’m thinking of you.
A man deep in his own grief, still making sure I knew he was there.
We started that walk 12 years ago almost to the day. And it’s still one of the most important things we share – not because it was perfect, but because it was real. His, and mine, and somehow still ours. 🥰
J’t’aime pap xox 😘
