Dad, I love you. 

Lieutenant, I hate you. 

You left the hospital with mum on her fifth contraction because the Code Red couldn’t wait. Forgetting, that neither could me opening my eyes to the dreary face of this colorful world, the surrogate for your eyes. 

You didn’t return till I had completed one year of existence. 

You weren’t there when I took my first steps. You were away training juniors to take their first flight. 

I had clutched Mama’s hand and the hard table for support, the cold wood didn’t fill the void of a father’s warm finger. 

You missed my first day of school. I watched others cling to their fathers in tears, while I wondered where mine was. Also, in tears. 

You weren’t there to intimidate my first date with the conventional ‘Dad talk’. You were briefing soldiers on their defense strategy. 

Not that you’d asked, but he treated me like shit. 

You weren’t there to give an embarrassing cheer from the crowd when I got my diploma. 

Mama was sick, so I was the only one who received it with mere, light, monotonous applause. 

You let your daughter’s life slip through your hands as deftly as sand.

They were too preoccupied loading the rifle. 

You missed the days people scrapbook. You never saw me in that tiger costume. 

You might’ve been able to satiate the desire to be with your baby girl with a long look at an old picture in your wallet, 

But a photograph could never make me miss you less. 

And finally, 

You were too busy to walk me down the aisle. Too busy walking into the face of death.

I still describe my wedding day as the worst day of my life. 

You found, in singing the national anthem, more pride than you did in singing me lullabies. 

I understand, nation always comes first. 

I always did. 

But it could never compensate for the piercing despair I felt every time you missed one of my birthday parties.

People always educate me, rather ignorantly, on how it’s a matter of immense pride, to have a parent serving the nation. 

And I am proud. I’m proud of you, for your valor and your ideals. For your sacrifices and your strength. 

But that pride didn’t do a very good job filling in for a father on family weekends. 

When friends asked me what my Dad did, I was honored to say he was who was the one keeping us all alive. 

But I’d give that honor up without a second’s hesitation, to say he was just an engineer, but a father who came home every night. 

I know you don’t regret failing to do justice to the label of a father, for one who regrets would do things differently if given a second chance. 

Not you.

Duty before family, that’s what you always said Dad - as justification for your chosen helplessness. 

I hate you Dad, for your absence. 

But I love you, for your reasons. 

And I hope you’re proud of me.

I’m joining the forces tomorrow.