My father died.

He was loving and present and funny and generous and he’s gone.

Seven years ago when my mother died, I said that I felt like a branch that had been severed from her tree—disconnected from the source. The loss of my mother from a sudden and random cancer felt like a tragic injustice. I spent my entire life striving to earn her love and was never quite able to reach her fully. Some of the grief I still carry is a thirst for all the maternal connection I still crave and will never satiate. And I so miss the way she did mother me well—cared for me with her special brand of gentle, warm competence—with a quiet, persistent ache.

While I was never quite chosen by my mom, my dad was all in with his whole, imperfect self. He chose us. I was his person. We took care of each other. He was challenged by emotional regulation (quick to frustration and anger) and executive functioning (very obviously undiagnosed ADHD), but the playful, generous love flowed from him with abundance. 

My most profound sense of peace that I feel in this lonely transition is that the love between us was fully spent. We left nothing on the table. There were no words left unspoken. Not one ounce of love was left unshared. He poured all he had to give into us and I poured all I had to give into him. It feels like a father-daughter circle that is fully enclosed and complete.

He far surpassed the lifespan of his parents. He outlived all of his siblings. He considered the last decade of his life bonus time—a gift he never anticipated receiving and was grateful to experience. Of course, I would have wanted more healthy years with him, but there is some peace that I can just grab hold of with my fingertips for alignment with the natural order of this loss. It does feel like he lived a full life—I know that he felt that way, and I can receive that small gift of comfort there. It does not result in me missing him any less, but I’ll embrace whatever gifts I can. 

Because there is all this new, aching, empty space in my heart and life that seems unique to the experience of being an adult orphan.

My unconditional love is gone. 

My dad loved me selflessly and endlessly in that special way that only a parent can love their child. It’s the most pure and powerful love in all of human existence. I know because I feel it for my own children too, but it doesn’t flow the other direction. The way my parents loved me felt like lifeblood flowing from the source, through them, to me. And the flow has now stopped. I have to survive the rest of my life on what reserves are contained within my cells. Never again will I experience a being looking at me as though I am their greatest miracle. Never again will I be embraced by a body that I’m made from. Never again will I hear a voice that resonates at the frequency of biological home.

My home is gone.

My inner child forever felt most at home in my parents’ arms. There is a sense of belonging and a promise of safety—the binding of a soul contract, regardless of the degree to which that potential is realized. My childhood was characterized by instability and I never experienced “home” in the traditional sense, but I have spent my life enjoying the privilege of a relational nest that is now dust—I can never again return home. I can no longer lean on the wisdom and comfort of my elders.

My past is gone.

Through my parents I felt connected to all of the ancestry that came before me. They were narrators of the legacy I inherited and witnesses to my origin story—a bridge to my past. I’ve lost access to the archive. There will be no more stories shared, organically surfaced like trickling memories that drip into my pond.

“As a child, you were very sensitive to the emotions of others. You felt deeply. You were quiet and kind, always good natured and smiling, so affectionate and snuggly, and a very fast learner.

Love, Mom”

One of my favorite things about my dad was how enjoyably and easily he would simply be with us (the art of “being with” without need for active “doing” feels like a lost art that I intentionally strive to cultivate, because my dad taught me how). When my kids were little, he would come and play with and love on my little wildlings every day. He joined us on so many adventures that he’s there, in almost every photo. He lived with us for many years, in an in-law suite we built out to capture the gifts of an intergenerational family life. He found fulfillment in the shared joy of my kiddos climbing all over him. He felt purpose in being helpful, always trying to pick things up from the store, get dinner, take care of things my kids needed or wanted. Gifting was his love language, but minimalism was a shared value of ours, so he gifted in a way that actually felt supportive. He filled our lives with so much laughter—a style of sarcastic and rebellious humor so specific to him (and me). He always had the most simple yet profound perspective to offer on what really mattered. He adored each of us so deeply and truly that we knew it in our bones and I’m left hoping that our marrow never metabolizes that unconditional love. 

My dad and I spoke every day. He called me late one night recently, saying he was feeling down and that he was calling because, “I just feel better when I talk to you.” May we all be so blessed to have that kind of love in our lives.

One of his last requests was for me to send him the same snow-cone machine he bought my youngest so they could make and eat snow-cones together and I just feel like that perfectly sums up my father’s legacy.

Timothy Joseph Fagan

Tim was a loving, present, funny, and generous father, grandfather, and friend. He was born in Boston, Massachusetts, son of Henry Fagan and Marie (Williams) Fagan and brother to Brian Fagan and Kathy (Fagan) Palli. After attending Natick High School, he served as a sergeant in the United States Marine Corps, receiving the National Defense Service Medal, Vietnamese Campaign Medal, Vietnamese Service Medal with two bronze stars, Good Conduct Medal, and Rifle Marksmanship Qualification Badge (Expert). He went on to earn a Bachelor’s degree in Political Science from the University of Massachusetts and a Master’s degree in Business Administration from Boston College. He worked as a mortgage banker in San Diego with some of his best friends for 22 years. He enjoyed playing golf, rooting for the Padres, and eating a good meal with great company, but his playful connection with his family is his greatest legacy. He is survived by his daughter Rachel Rainbolt, son-in-law Joshua Rainbolt, grandchildren Skyler Rainbolt, Bailey Rainbolt, Weston Rainbolt, Ariana Emory, Garrett Grima, Elise Grima, and Ava Grima, and his great grandchild Marina Emory. Each one carries forward his spirit, his stories, and his love.