My parents died almost 50 years apart from each other. I was so young when I lost my mom, and it brought me closer to my dad.

It was a hard time, but some things were going my way. Just before my mother’s death, I’d been offered a job at a community college in Vancouver to teach English to Asian students, work that I would find deeply satisfying. I also sold my first article to a local magazine, launching my freelance writing career. Still, that winter felt very bleak. A few months after my mother’s death, I joined a T’ai Chi class. When I told my teacher that she had recently died, he frowned and asked how old I was.

“25,” I said.

“Young,” he replied.

I turned away so he couldn’t see the tears in my eyes. He was right. I was young, even if I liked to think of myself as worldly and sophisticated.

I had a hard time grieving after my mother died

I was also deeply conflicted because I was still figuring out who I was independently from my mother, and there had been friction between us. The last time I’d seen her was the previous Christmas, a very difficult day. That morning she took me aside and pointed out that I had criticized each of her presents, and I dissolved into tears of guilt.

Now, almost 50 years later, I believe our relationship would have mellowed over time. She, too, was a writer and would have loved to see my writing career flourish and how happy I am in my life.

Meanwhile, eight months after my mother’s death, my father remarried. He would marry again several years later when my first stepmother died. By the time of his death at 101 — almost 50 years after my mother — he had outlived three wives and a girlfriend. I later volunteered with terminally ill patients in hospice care, and I learned a phrase that my dad personified: “Women grieve, men marry.”

I became closer with my father after my mother’s death

Growing up, I wasn’t close to him. Typical for the 1950s, my mother was the default parent when it came to childrearing. But the silver lining from my mother’s death was that with her gone, Daddy gradually filled the gap. This was particularly true after my second stepmother died. Although he had a girlfriend, they didn’t live together, and finally, I was able to get the attention I wanted from him.

I felt so attached to him, in fact, that in a support group I belonged to in my 50s, I broke down and sobbed about the future loss of my father. Although he wouldn’t die for another 15 years, I had developed a fear of being an “adult orphan.”

My father died almost five decades after my mother

During the pandemic, I worried about him, isolated in his room at his assisted living facility, so I called him every morning. Our conversation was often the highlight of my day, and he told me he, too, treasured our daily talks. My dad brought out a playful side of me. I was sillier with him during that time than probably any other time in my life, before or since. Laughing together is what I miss most about him.

The afternoon before his death almost two years ago, while I was alone in his room with him, I said, “Daddy, it’s OK to die. We’ve all said goodbye to you. I release you from your physical form!” My sisters and I didn’t want him to linger on. Since he was comatose, I have no idea if the message penetrated, but the next morning he took his last breath.

These days, I’m in the curious position of someone who lost one parent decades before my peers, and the other parent long after. At 72, after so many years of fearing such a loss, I, too, have joined the club of adult orphans. Happily, the anxiety before was much worse than the reality now. I miss them both, but dead or alive, they’re still my parents. I call on them for help when I need them, and they’re always there for me.