A timeless song by Stef Bos, 'Daddy I look more and more like you,' resonates deeply with so many. Chantal Janzen's emotional rendition brings tears every time—it's profoundly relatable for anyone who's lost a parent.
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As my father's death anniversary approaches, I find myself drawn back to this song. Is it self-torture? Perhaps, but the lyrics hit home: 'Daddy I look more and more like you.' I once vowed never to repeat his parenting style with my own child—no overprotectiveness, no raised voices. Yet, lately, his phrases slip from my lips unbidden. I even catch myself telling my husband, 'My father would say this or that to you right now.'
It's been four years since he passed, and while I've moved forward, the grief lingers. Our relationship wasn't always easy—he was opinionated and unafraid of debate—but he was my dad, and that bond endures.
September and October hit hardest. My birthday in September feels empty without his 30+ years of calls and celebrations. This year marked the first without tears (though my aunt's passing that day overshadowed it). Then his birthday arrives, leaving me with a heavy ache I mask from others. Now, his anniversary looms, filling my days with memories of our music sessions, day trips, and final visits. I cherish sharing these stories—his life and loss deserve to be told.
I always saw myself as a mama's girl, but grief reveals the truth: I was a daddy's girl too. The void makes me yearn to share life's moments with him. I confide in a tight circle, fearing I sound whiny, but appearing strong often means staying silent.
When a colleague invites me to a party on his anniversary, I decline—four years on, it still feels impossible. That rawness shapes me: I can't tolerate estranged parent-child relationships. I urge reconciliation, no matter how small the rift. Life's too fragile—don't leave without a goodbye, because tomorrow isn't promised.
But daddy, I'm more and more like you. But daddy, I love you more and more.
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