The last time I saw my dad, he had just been diagnosed with a malignant tumor. Thankfully, I was able to fly over to England immediately and spend a little time with him. When it came time for me to leave, he insisted on driving me to the airport just so we could spend some extra time together. But as he lived and hour and a half away, I refused because I didn’t want him driving back alone and I insisted on catching an airport bus. I just didn’t want him stressed.He worried that anything could go wrong on the bus and I may not make my flight, but I reminded him that I am a seasoned traveler with vast experience in these things and it was more important for me that he wasn’t stressed. So reluctantly, he dropped me off at the bus terminal.

He fussed and fussed and insisted on waiting for the bus with me so he could see me off. I went along with it all just to compromise. Then we got word that the scheduled bus to Heathrow had broken down. He insisted again that he drive me. I assured him that there was another bus coming in 30 mins and I still had enough time, even if it was starting to cut it real thin.

He offered to buy me coffee. We drove down the road to a country pub and spent the next 20 mins talking about how nice it would be if I could bring the whole family over in the summer. I promised I would.

Then it was time to leave. We hugged tight and he wiped a tear from his eye. He offered one more time to drive me. I declined, telling him it is for his own good and climbed on to the bus and waved out from the big window as the bus slowly joined the crowded motorway.

About 15 minutes or so into the ride, I realised I had lost my passport. I searched frantically through my bags and clothes pockets. Nothing, a wave of nausea hit me.

About 10 minutes later, I gather the courage to call my dad. He answered in one ring, as if he was expecting it. I told him about the passport. He checked to see if I had left it in my room or the kitchen. Nothing.

He zipped back to the bus station. Nothing. He checked the car park. Nothing. He drove back to the country pub. There, in the corner where we had been sitting, was a small little booklet on the floor. He picked it up and checked it. Sure enough, it was my passport.

He called me to tell me. But now he had to drive at breakneck speed to catch the bus and hand it to me. What unfolded next was the stuff you make up in the playground when you’re bragging about how your dad can beat up your friend’s dad. It was a mix of Transporter and Taken, albeit in a travel document sort of way.

I stood at the check in counter pleading with them to keep it open. They did all they could, but airline regulations forced them to close. But just as she was about to finish the sentence, the phone rang. And about a minute later, my dad pulled up kerbside and handed me my passport with a smile so bright, I thought his face would crack.

Unbelievably, I made my flight. But sadly, I never made the flight back with my family as he passed away a few months after.

But as sad as I am about that, I’ll never forget that moment. It was the last memory I have of him. The joy in his face was so pure. As stressful as the trip must have been, he looked 30 years younger than when I had told him he couldn’t drive me to the airport because I can handle it on my own.

Nothing ages a person quite as fast as the feeling of not being needed. Sometimes we believe we are doing the people we love a favor by not leaning on them, when it is usually the opposite that is true. The primal joy came from the simple fact that I needed him and he came through for me. And as a parent, there’s no greater joy than that.

So happy Father’s Day, Superman. I sure do miss you.