A Girl Dad Remembered — Daddy

This piece is one of my earliest versions of storytelling, written sometime in the early 1980s.
Today, in October 2025, my sister brought me the original copy — typed, dated, and worn, the paper itself softened by time and water rot at the edges. Reading it again,  I revisit the true connection of A Girl Dad Remembered — Daddy.

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If once upon a time there were fairy tales—where a pauper became rich, a frog turned into a prince, and a homely girl found her handsome love and rode into the sunset to live happily ever after—then I would not be writing this.
Because what I know of life contradicts all that fantasy.

The happiest years of my life must have been before Daddy died.
I was nine.
And since then, the loss has wrapped itself around me—sometimes softly, sometimes like a fog that won’t lift.

As a child, I felt I belonged, though I was never quite sure to whom.
Mammy had eleven children. Because my brother Anthony, born with Down Syndrome, passed away, I became number ten—the last of the tribe. Anthony was a special soul. He’d make a mess of himself and the walls one moment, and the next he’d melt your heart with the most angelic smile. He drew attention without meaning to. Poor Mammy—how could she mother one child more than another when love had to stretch so far?

Mammy loved Daddy more than I think any woman could love a man. She had fallen from grace once—pregnant before marriage—and when she finally became Mrs. Walker, she meant every word of her vows: for better or worse, in sickness and in health, till death. Daddy was different from her—less polished, not as educated, but charming and alive. She had come from what used to be a proud, well-to-do family, with a grandfather who, according to old stories, drew the plans for the Red House of Trinidad and Tobago—our national monument of record and history.
But the times being what they were, a Black man’s work was often signed off by a White one. His name—Eugene Te’nar—lives only in our memory, not in the archives.

Mammy’s commandment in life was simple: be Mrs. Walker. That was her honor.
And it wasn’t easy. Daddy loved her, truly—but he also loved life too much. He had energy to spare, and temptation followed him wherever he went. Still, he adored his children. And Mammy, though weary and wounded, never broke. She stood upright through gossip and hardship, a woman of moral strength and religious devotion.

Daddy, on the other hand—he was laughter and song. He hugged, he teased, he gave little gifts and big smiles. Everyone knew him, even The Mighty Sparrow. There’s an old calypso—“Good Morning, Mr. Walker, ah come to see yuh daughter”—and I swear Sparrow sang that for him.

By the time most of my older brothers and sisters had started their own lives—Vicky, Andre, Maggie, Monica, Gemma, and Val—it was just Michael, Brian, Derek, and me at home. Daddy spoiled me because I was his baby girl. When Mammy had her hands full with the boys’ mischief, Daddy was the calm after the storm. I’d wait for him to come home, jump into his arms, and feel like the world was good again. I’d brush his hair when he rested and sometimes sleep curled up between him and Mammy.

Our house on Walker Street, Diego Martin, was big by village standards. Daddy always had a car, and at Christmas we’d drive to see the crèche around the Savannah. He’d say the entire Rosary on his chaplet, while Brian would find some antic to perform, and disrupt Daddy's prayerful litany.   The entourage of us, Brian, Derek, myself, Curt and Lisa, our nephew and niece, and Pat our cousin would all bundle back into the hatchback Anglia, and listen to Daddy's banter about Brian's ridiculous behavior.  We were all  fidgeting in anticipation that there was some residual belting for Brian when we returned home.. When we got home, Mammy would have the house smelling of cake, ham, and sorrel. There’d be chaos and laughter, and—inevitably—a few cut tails before bedtime.

Those were the days when everything made sense.
Until it didn’t.

All in all, I was a good student. Up through Common Entrance, nothing too tragic had happened—until Daddy began staying in bed more than usual. I thought it was fun at first, to come home and find him there. I’d bring the brush, climb beside him, and comb his hair while he told stories or dozed.

Val was the family chauffeur by then. She’d drive Lisa and me to Sacred Heart and take Curt to Western Boys, and in the afternoons she’d collect us again. Most days, Curt and Lisa would start some squabble in the backseat, and Val would give me that look: “Grace, handle it.” Because I knew better than playing peacemaker, I'd sit straight, looking ahead,  minding my business. Monica was in England by then, and I remember thinking one day I’d go there too.

Then came Derek’s accident. It was Mrs. Rita Salandy who got the call and brought the message to Mammy. Derek was hurt badly, and Daddy—already sick—was taken to the hospital too. I remember visiting Daddy once and feeling frightened. He wasn’t my same Daddy anymore. His eyes looked far away, and he spoke about spirits around him, telling me to come closer. I wanted to, but I hesitated—he didn’t seem like himself, and that scared me.

A few days later, the house was full again—people moving in quiet bursts, Mammy whispering, sisters dressing, neighbors arriving with food. Val came to pick us up, the car already loaded. We were going to the funeral. I didn’t completely understand it; no one had sat me down to explain. I only knew we were going somewhere solemn.

In all that confusion, no one was paying much attention to me, so I decided to get myself ready. I found an eyebrow pencil and drew careful lines over my brows, along with lipstick—my own idea of being grown, being proper for whatever was about to happen. I thought I was helping, making myself look nice too. Much to Val's annoyance and chagrin, she practically wiped the skin off my face, in the quick clean up effort.

At the funeral procession, policemen in white uniforms on motorcycles led the way to Mucurapo Cemetery. Mammy, in her solemn black attire, walked behind the hearse. She didn’t cry—not where we could see—but her silence was its own kind of wail. 

At the funeral gravesite, I remember Vicky, her eyes swollen from crying. Maggie looked beautiful in her fitted black dress. She already had her first born.   Gemma weeped openly, trembling so much that she fainted and her fiance Pat, had to hold her up.

Derek was brought to the graveside by ambulance and was rolled out in a wheelchair, his leg stiff in a cast.  

It was a stark memory.  There was no open coffin.  

The lid stayed shut. The coffin disappeared into the ground while hymns were sung, and I stood there, looking on.   Around me, everyone seemed to have a role—someone to comfort, someone to carry, someone to weep. I was just... there. Watching. Trying to make sense of it all.

After some time passed, it dawned on me that this was forever.

No more hugs.
No more hair brushing.
No one to tuck me in or say prayers beside me.

Daddy had gone ahead—to what Mammy called his heavenly home.
And we—Mammy, my brothers, my sisters—have been trudging along ever since, step by step, sometimes painfully, but always guided by her faith.

Even now, when I close my eyes, I still see Daddy’s smile. I still feel his hand lifting me high enough to see the world.
And maybe that’s what being a girl dad truly means—leaving behind a daughter who still carries the light of that love, even in her grown woman’s heart.

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It's been 60 years, and Daddy still is a vivid, lasting, eternally loving presence.