Dear Dad,

A year? I still shake my head. How could it be a year since you died? My unstoppable, force-of-nature father. The man who I’m named for. The man who I get my height and my blues eyes from. The man who taught me—by example—family comes first. It doesn’t seem possible.

Or fair.

The biggest—and most obvious—truth is I miss you. We all miss you. None of us were ready for you to die. Though from past experience, I’m not sure anyone is ever ready. (A harsher truth.) This past year of first has been difficult. Learning to adjust to life without your physical presence—yet still keeping you close in all the other important ways is like learning anything new: challenging. But I know for certain you would be proud of the family you co-created. We pulled in closer to one another. We keep an eye on each other. We find ways to support each other on a daily basis. And that’s because of what you taught us.

When Shelli was diagnosed with breast cancer, she called me first. Like she called me the day you died to tell me to come home to Indiana as quickly (and safely) as possible. If you were here, her first phone call would have been to you. I was humbled to take it in your stead. It was only a month or so after you died, so she was already shaken, and yet had so much more to bear.

This won’t surprise you. She dug in and handled it expertly—with guts, guile and gusto. And when she went in for two surgeries, I made sure to be there—alongside Ronda and Mom. I ordered t-shirts for us to wear in solidarity and support of her. #StempkowskiStrong is real. She’s doing incredibly well, refusing to be defined by what she’s endured. She’s a role model. The truth about Shelli is she’s a warrior queen.

You might not be surprised to hear that your wife keeps on keeping on. I know a bit about what she’s feeling—though I also know grief is unique and different for each person. I’ve done my best to support her. She knows she can rely on me–on all three of us–for pretty much anything—but most definitely for comic relief.

She started off the year with an unexpected hospital stay. Pneumonia. I think she was just worn down. After losing you, then sliding in to the holidays that she wanted as normal as possible, it got away from her. She’s tough—which is why it didn’t occur to her she was sick. She’s made a full recovery and continues to kick ass and take names. When my Ring goes off on my phone some evenings, I look to find her on that huge lawn mower you used to ride. The truth is Mom has more grit than all of us combined.

Christmas was hard—as you would expect. It’s our most-anticipated and longest-running family tradition. I think we all did our best to stay in the moment—-with each other. You were there in our hearts, but there was an ache we all felt. It’s like at your Celebration of Life, as I looked around the room to check on Mom and my sisters, I also kept looking for you. Instinctively. Counting off the 4 of you like always. I was doing the same thing on Christmas Eve…looking for you. Longing to see you holding court in your office or hovering in the kitchen. I was overcome many times and fought hard to stay present. Truth be told, I’m sure I wasn’t the only one struggling.

Ever buoyant in the face of loss, your son gifted Mom, Shelli, Ronda and No-Ne a pocket stone engraved with the word “hope.” I pulled them aside on Christmas Eve—away from the others—to your office to blubber out how much I loved them and how proud you would be of how we all held each other up. I wanted to remind them with something physical: that no matter what happens in our lives, the truth is we have each other and we always have hope.

I haven’t looked forward to this week. Or the date it contains. There is something comforting in knowing a year ago you were here. But I lose that privilege–that crutch–today. I know as time passes, that will get easier from my own experience with Ken. But you still remain an active topic of our family conversations. We still have challenges to face and triumphs to celebrate. We’ll do both together. Truth is you still live vibrantly in all of us.

We are the kind of a family I always thought we were. We take care of each other and we check on each other. We soothe each other, and we rile each other when necessary. We are ever-connected. Though our family recipe might be missing an ingredient, your essence remains. And it’s pervasive. You’re still integral to our family unity. Another truth: that won’t ever change.