The Goodbye I Didn’t Get — and the Love That Never Left

Happy Wednesday, my dear friends.

Today is Friday Eve, and we’re quickly approaching the weekend. Today was my day to go see my Aunt Billie. I was excited to spend time with her, but seeing her stirred up some emotions I’ve been quietly avoiding. I had questions to ask her so I can complete her legacy story — her book — and that brought up memories of my dad.

For nearly six years, I’ve carried a quiet guilt about not getting to say goodbye. Not the movie‑moment goodbye I had imagined. For a long time, I thought my brother Jimmy got that moment, but the truth is… he didn’t either.

He may have been there when Dad took his last breath, but that wasn’t a peaceful farewell. It was a shock. He wasn’t prepared. He wasn’t expecting it. He wasn’t ready any more than I was. His “goodbye” wasn’t a gift — it was something he’s had to process and carry in his own way.

What I’ve really been holding all this time is the sadness of not being allowed a final moment. I miss my dad every day, and yet I feel blessed by the ways he still shows up for me. Whenever I see a butterfly, I know he’s near — checking in, reminding me he never truly left.

Dad passed on a Wednesday evening. I last spoke to him Monday morning. His nurse was arriving, so we cut our conversation short. I asked if he was okay, and he told me he was. He told me he wasn’t going anywhere. I believed him. He was being strong for me, because he knew if he had said anything different, I would have dropped everything to be by his side.

I didn’t choose not to say goodbye.
I simply wasn’t given the moment.

And now I see something I couldn’t see before: Jimmy didn’t get a “better” goodbye. He got a harder one. He had to be strong for his three children who were there. He had to hold himself together in a moment no one can ever be prepared for. He had to carry the weight of calling me — through tears — to tell me Dad was gone.

Losing someone we love means learning a new normal. Jimmy and I had to lean on each other, and I’m grateful for how Dad’s passing brought us closer. I believe Dad watches over each of us in his own way. For me, it’s butterflies. For Jimmy… well, that’s his story to tell.

For years, I thought Jimmy got something I didn’t. But now I understand: neither of us got the goodbye we wanted. We each got the goodbye we were given. Mine came earlier — in the healing dad and I shared at my cabin, in the music, in the forgiveness, in the laughter. Jimmy’s came in the final moment, unexpected and heavy.

I didn’t get the romanticized goodbye.
But I also didn’t have to witness the hardest moment of all.

The guilt I’ve carried — for not calling back Tuesday, for missing Wednesday’s call, for not being there — is something I’m finally ready to release. I loved my dad deeply. He knew that. And I believe he left this world knowing we were okay.

So today, I wrote him a letter.

This is for you, Daddy.

Daddy,

There are things I’ve carried for years that I’ve never said out loud, and today I want to let them breathe. I want to tell you what was in my heart then, and what’s still in my heart now.

I wish I had known how close you were to leaving. I wish I had called you back that Tuesday, and again on Wednesday. I wish I had heard your voice one more time. I wish I had been there to hold your hand, to tell you I loved you, to tell you it was okay to rest.

But Daddy… I believed you when you said you were okay. I trusted you when you told me you weren’t going anywhere. I didn’t stay away because I didn’t care — I stayed away because you made me feel safe enough to. You were protecting me, even then.

I’ve carried guilt for not being there in your final moments. I’ve carried the ache of not getting to say goodbye. But the truth is, our goodbye didn’t happen on that last day. It happened in the cabin — in the music, the beer, the laughter, the forgiveness, the long night where we found each other again. That was our real goodbye, the one that mattered.

I want you to know I’m grateful for that night. I’m grateful for the healing we shared. I’m grateful that you left this world knowing I loved you, knowing we were okay, knowing we had come full circle.

For a long time, I thought Jimmy got something I didn’t — a final moment, a last breath, a goodbye. But now I understand his experience wasn’t a gift. It wasn’t peaceful or prepared. It was sudden, shocking, and something he’s had to carry in his own way. His moment wasn’t “better” than mine. It was simply different.

And Daddy… I see now that my goodbye came earlier, in a way that was deeper and more honest than anything that could have happened in the room where you took your last breath.

Daddy, I’m letting myself release the guilt.
I’m letting myself release the sadness around the timing.
I’m letting myself remember the love instead of the moment I missed.

I hope you know I never meant to miss anything.
I hope you know I would have been there if I had known.
I hope you know I’ve loved you every day since.

And I hope you know… I still feel you.
In the butterflies.
In the music.
In the moments that land in my chest like truth.
You’re still here.
You never really left.

I love you, Daddy.
And I’m finally letting myself heal.

Love,
Your baby girl

A Note for Jimmy:

And before I close, I want to say something about my brother Jimmy.

Jimmy, if you ever read this, I hope you know how deeply grateful I am that you were there with Dad. I can’t imagine how heavy that moment must have been, or how much strength it took to hold yourself together for your kids, for Dad, and even for me when you made that call.

Thank you for being there.
Thank you for loving him the way you did.
Thank you for carrying a moment none of us were prepared for.

I love you more than I’ve ever said out loud, and I’m grateful every day that we walked through that loss together. Dad would be proud of the way we’ve held each other up. He always wanted us close — and in his own way, he made sure we would be.

I love you little brother.

A time for reflection:

Grief has a way of reshaping us — quietly, slowly, and often without our permission. But healing has its own timing too. Today, sitting with Aunt Billie, asking her questions about her life, I realized that telling our stories is one of the ways we find our way back to ourselves.

If you’ve ever carried guilt around a goodbye you didn’t get…
or a moment you missed…
or a last conversation you wish had gone differently…
I hope my words remind you that love isn’t measured by timing.
It’s measured by connection.
By presence.
By the moments that mattered long before the final one.

May we all learn to release what was never ours to hold.
May we honor the goodbyes we did get.
And may we feel the ones we love in the small, quiet signs that show up when we need them most.

Love Life++ Hugs,
Dawna — may the butterflies remind you that we are all still becoming