For most of our lives, we grow up believing our parents are invincible, that somehow, they’ll always be there. To support us and to listen to our stories. To give us advice, even when we don’t ask for it. And yes, to drive us a little crazy in the way only parents do.

We carry this assumption that there will always be more time to ask questions, uncover old family stories, and know them not just as parents, but as people. Until one day, they’re gone. And we’re left wondering: Did we say everything we needed to? Did we truly listen? Did we ask all the questions?

I often think not just about what I missed but what they missed too. The dreams they never shared. The heartbreaks they carried silently. The moments they held closest that we’ll never fully know.

And beyond that, I think of how much the world has changed since they’ve been gone. I wonder how they would have reacted to the strange, beautiful, chaotic years that followed. To the wars, the wonders and the new technologies. I wonder what they would have feared and what they would have been excited about.

Because even when they’re no longer here, we keep searching for their reflections in the world they never got to see.

The echo of him lives on in me

My father passed away in 1983. I still remember the disbelief, the shock of realising I would never hear his voice again. The silence that followed felt impossible. Then came the denial, and the quiet fear of letting go, as if holding on to the grief could somehow keep him near.

When I look back now, I’m struck by just how much he missed. So many milestones: my weddings, the birth of my daughter, the years I spent living in Kenya, Saudi Arabia, Switzerland, France, Mexico, and Iran. He would have loved every story. He always dreamed of seeing the world, but life never gave him the chance.

I traveled for both of us. And sometimes, when I stepped off a plane in a place he never knew, I imagined telling him all about it, how the air smelled, what the people were like, the unexpected beauty in each new beginning. I think he would have listened with wonder, as if he had travelled those roads too.

So what did he miss?

He missed the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 or the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, events that reshaped the world order. He didn’t see the end of apartheid in South Africa or Nelson Mandela become President. He never knew about 9/11, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, or the global fight against terrorism that followed. He never heard of ISIS or watched the map of the Middle East redraw itself in pain. And the pain continues across the region with never ending conflicts, escalations and death. He also missed the first Black President in the US and the rise of China as a powerful player in the world stage.

He missed the revolution of the digital age and things we now take for granted. Smartphones, electric cars, online banking and digital photography. My father gave me my first small camera and he would have been happy to see how far I have come with my passion for photography. How he would have loved to have a smartphone, to google, to explore the world with it. The world has since become closer, faster, more connected but he was gone before any of it began.

The Pandemic would have weighed heavily on him. The lockdowns and the silence in the streets, would have felt like a cage. My father was a man that appreciated his freedom. He loved to walk, especially along the beach, feel the sun on his skin and the wind in his hair .

As for me I miss the conversations we never got to have, the warmth in his smile, the quiet charm that could light up a room, and his sense of humour. I never had the chance to tell him that I earned my Bachelor’s degree, that I fell in love more than once and got my heart broken too. That I wandered far from home, living most of my life in remarkable places across the world. And that above all, I have a daughter who is brilliant, courageous and full of quiet determination.

Her Rhythm was resilience

My mother left just before the world stood still. She missed the silence of empty streets, the loneliness of masked goodbyes and the strange stillness that settled over us all.

But she had lived a long, not always easy life. Beneath her veil of pessimism was a woman full of spirit, who had loved deeply, was witty and loved to dance but didn’t get to do it as often because my father didn’t share her skills or her passion. She learned ballroom-dancing as a young woman  and her favourite films were those where Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers would glide across the screen, in an elegant, joyful way.

Life wasn’t gentle with her. It placed obstacles in her path that would have broken many. But she moved through them the best she could, always placing her six children at the centre of the world. Her sacrifice for her children was her greatest legacy.

So what did she miss?

A few more conflicts perhaps better left unknown. Like the war in Ukraine, the tensions and conflicts in the Middle East and a new era of global uncertainty. She didn’t witness the increase in natural disasters, fires sweeping across continents, rising sea levels, hurricane season growing fiercer every year. She didn’t see the recent wave of women led protests or the quiet path towards authoritarianism in countries we once believed were immune.

As an admirer of the glamour of Hollywood’s golden days, she would have felt more the loss of Olivia de Havilland, Angela Lansbury and Sidney Poitier. But she would have also felt sad by the passing of Harry Belafonte, Tony Bennett and Tina Turner. She missed their final bows, but she carried their songs with her.

For me, I miss a time when we would talk for hours, when she would give me advice or scold me for worrying her too much. I miss our afternoons in Lisbon, catching a movie on a whim, then sharing lemon tea and cake at her favourite coffee shop. Or when she wore dark glasses in the evening, claiming the lights were too bright for her eyes, giving off the aura of an old Hollywood star. I miss her elegant poise, the way she carried herself, and her constant reminders about how we should conduct ourselves through life, always aiming up, never down. I feel sorry she never saw my daughter reach her teenage years but I will always be grateful for the happy moments they shared together.

When my voice fades too …

I often think how the world will evolve when I’m gone.  In a perfect world,  I would wish for no more wars, no more conflicts or pandemics but I know that’s wishful thinking.

What truly stirs my curiosity are the innovations still to come. Will AI take over the world? Will private flying vehicles become as common as cars? Will humanity settle on other planets, or finally find the cure for cancer? Will we speak every language instantly eliminating barriers between cultures? Will we just store our memories digitally passing them as heirlooms from generation to generation? Will love and human connections change and become more virtual and artificial?

On a personal level, I know I will miss parts of my daughter’s life and maybe that of her children too. I will miss journeys still to come for family and friends and the stories I won’t get to witness. But perhaps I will still linger somewhere beyond time and maybe, just maybe, I will be able to catch a glimpse of the special and happy moments.

What about you? Would love to read your comments!