Why I Never Go to the Cemetery to “Visit” My Dad

And it’s not because I don’t miss him

Photo by peter bucks on Unsplash

Almost nine years ago, when I was barely 18 years old, I lost my dad. Bone cancer took him from me, my little sister, and my grandmother in just over a year.

It was the most violent thing I have ever faced in my short life. It was not just a loss, but a world that was falling apart. Of course, I am not the first, nor unfortunately the last person to lose a loved one. But losing your father at 18 and having a mother who “didn’t care” was not easy to deal with as you might imagine.

I had to take care of my 16-year-old little sister and my grandmother. I put my pain aside to try to help them as much as possible to overcome this immense grief. I didn’t cry for the first few days. I didn’t even cry at the funeral.

My grandmother was in so much pain that I really thought it was possible to die of grief. But strangely enough, I realized that her faith in God helped her. She is Portuguese, she is 86 and she never went to school. She can’t read, she can’t write, and the only form of education she has is what has been told to her about the Christian religion. As an atheist, who does not believe in any higher, invisible force, and as someone who is hostile to almost every form of religion, I had to admit that it can help. And I am…