Charlie, you were the dad I didn’t have by blood,
the steady laugh, the steady shoulder, the solid good.
You listened to me — even when I sang you to sleep
on teenage drunken nights — and somehow loved me anyway.
You took it all in stride: Emma and I embarrassing you
on your favourite green, winking like we owned the place. 😉
You bought my first pram for my first baby — who could forget —
little things that felt like huge acts of love.
We talked until neither of us got a word in edgeways, 🤪
swapping stories, finishing each other’s sentences,
always two halves of the same ridiculous conversation.
You were there when I needed to cry, to rant, to be heard —
never too busy, never pretending to be anything other than true.
My children adored you, just as I always did.
There will only ever be one Charlie — a true legend —
the sort of man who’d do anything for you, no questions asked.
You loved your girls and helped raise them with tough honest hearts;
I was lucky to be a part of that life, that family, that home.
I still can’t believe you’re gone — we didn’t say goodbye,
we didn’t talk this through. You told me you’d be around till ninety-seven;
I believed you would. I still half expect your voice, your grin,
the easy way you made a hard day feel softer.
So here’s to you — to the small, perfect memories:
the pram, the laughs on the green, the late-night songs,
the endless listening, the quiet steady love.
I’ll carry you forward in every silly story and every honest tear.
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