When you’re a dad, you don’t get a report card.
There’s no quarterly review or end-of-year evaluation that tells you how you’re doing. Most days, you just do your best, hope your effort lands, and pray that something good takes root.
But late at night, when the house is quiet and the world finally slows down, I find myself wondering:
What will my kids actually remember about me?
Will they remember the way I made them laugh? The way I made time for them—even when life was busy? Will they remember the quiet drives, the inside jokes, the times we talked about real things?
Or will they only remember the moments I got it wrong?
I Hope They Know I Tried
I hope my kids know I tried my best. That even on the days I didn’t get it right—even when I was tired, distracted, or unsure—I never stopped trying.
I hope they remember that I was there. That I showed up. That I made an effort to understand them, even when it felt like we were living in two different worlds.
There are nights when I sit on the couch and wonder if I’m too far away—emotionally, generationally, even physically. My son is in his room on his game, my daughter is in hers on her phone, and I’m just hoping they know I’m here.
Not just in the house. But here.
Available. Attentive. Loving.
I know they won’t always want to hang out with Dad. But I still want to be someone they trust. Someone they want to talk to when life gets confusing or hard.
The Meetings With My Daughter
Right now, my daughter is 17, and we’ve started having biweekly meetings to talk about her future. That might sound formal, but we keep it simple—20 minutes to sit and talk, just the three of us. (Her, Me, & Mom)
Our first one was last week. I asked her, “When you’re 27, what do you want life to look like?”
Not what job she wants or where she wants to live. I asked her to think bigger than that.
“How do you want to impact the world? What kind of life would feel meaningful to you?”
We’ll keep having these conversations throughout her senior year—not to pressure her into a decision, but to remind her that her life is hers to live. That I’m here to support, not control. And that I’ll be proud of her no matter what path she takes.
These conversations feel like legacy moments.
Not because they’re profound or perfect.
But because they’re intentional.
My Son and the Passenger Seat
With my son, it’s a little different. He’s younger. We connect through small things—chess games, video games, car rides.
There’s a photo on a table my desk that means a lot to me. It’s me driving, with both kids in the backseat. A song came on, and we all started dancing—just being silly together. It wasn’t a special day. But it’s one of those ordinary moments that felt extraordinary.
That’s what I hope they remember.
Not just the lessons. Not just the structure.
But the moments that made them feel safe. Loved. Seen.
A Legacy That Outlives Me
If you asked me what I want my kids to say about me after I’m gone, I’d probably ramble. There’s so much I’d want them to know.
But if I had to choose just a few things?
I hope they say I was a good dad.
That I was always available.
That I never made them feel small or unwanted.
That I encouraged their dreams and reminded them they were capable.
I hope they say I made faith feel real.
Not like a rulebook or a guilt trip, but a relationship. A source of strength. A daily lifeline.
I hope they see my life and realize I wasn’t perfect, but I was intentional. I tried to prepare them for the world. I tried to give them stability, wisdom, and a deep sense of worth.
Why It Matters So Much
I’ve spent most of my life thinking about what kind of dad I’d be. Even back in elementary school, I’d imagine having kids one day and doing things differently.
I compared myself to the father figures in my life—some abusive, some absent, some just unequipped—and I made silent vows: I won’t do that. I won’t be like that.
There was abuse in my childhood. Neglect. A deep sense that I was a burden. I learned early on how to make myself small so I wouldn’t be sent away. But I also learned how to survive—and eventually, how to overcome.
That’s what I want to pass on.
Not just good memories. Not just fun trips or nice stuff.
But resilience. Hope. Perspective.
I want my kids to know that no matter what happens, they can make it through. That pain doesn’t define them. That with faith and perseverance, they can create a life worth living.
What I’d Say If They Read This After I’m Gone
If there was ever a day when my kids sat down to read my words after I’ve passed, I think this is what I’d want them to see:
“God laid out your life before the foundations of the Earth. You are no accident. Your purpose is real. And while I am not God, I’ve been thinking about you since I was a child myself. You’ve been in my heart long before you were born. I’ve loved you with everything I had. I tried to give you the best of me. I wanted you to feel safe, and capable, and deeply loved. And I hope you carry that with you—always.”
That’s what I hope they remember.
Not the mistakes I made.
Not the moments I got it wrong.
But the man who never stopped trying.
The man who loved them more than life itself.
The man who was proud to be their dad.
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