Today marks three years of your passing.

I used to think that by now, I could share a story or two of the life lessons you taught us.

You taught me how to determine the safe space between a stove and fridge, how to put out a small fire and what to do when there's a big one, how to use drills, saws, and jacks, and how to properly change lanes, read the street signs, and measure the space to drive safely.

I learnt a lot, yet I lost so much.

I can change flat tires and dismantle furniture, but it took me years to change my negative self-talk and disarm myself from the arrogance. Every scrap of me is indeed taken from you. I can't even sing along to that lyric from Taylor's because it hits too close to home.

I love you, and I don't want to be you.

I'm gonna be a better version of you. The one you maybe hoping you were three years ago when we held hands in the hospital room, singing to my favorite old gospel song that I only sing once a year now because it reminds me of you. I would pay millions to see that man shed tears on my wedding day, and not on his deathbed. But that's the circle of life. The drive in the hearse was our last road trip together, bringing you to your resting place.

I love you, and I'm glad I didn't follow most of your advices. There was distance between us, but as long as the formality stays, we were fine. Now I'm happily married with a man who didn't raise me yet never raised his voice. I never have to deal with awkward silence because he made it comfortable. He pinpoints the problem but never points at me. We fight, we argue, yet we won't leave each other by choice. In the short time of you knowing him, I'm glad your laughter will be one of a few precious memories you shared together.

I am living as a better version of you.

I'm a lot happier now. I still overthink any inconvenience, but I'm content. I laughed the way you laughed. At jokes, not at people.

I run now. I wore the sportswear you bought and never got the chance to use. My feet has muscles and I lost 10 kgs. The endorphins help me to grieve in a healthy way. Yes, I grieve for you sometimes. I grieve for you in the middle of Coldplay's concert. We still grieves for you. But that's okay. We are okay. Life is okay and when bad things happen, I'll ask myself quietly, "What will the kind, loving, and gentle version of my late dad do?"

Because what was lost and taken away, will be shared to as many people as I could.