On Father’s Day a few weeks ago, my Facebook feed, as it is every year, was flooded with “Happy Father’s Day” messages from Facebook friends, lots of father-child photos, and even a few tear-jerker posts. One post really stood out to me a lot. It was from a former high school classmate who I know has been constantly traveling since she was young. The only reason I know this is because she posts occasional photos from her travels on Facebook, and in her posts, she references her constant travel since her youth. Her post was very frank. She mentioned how pissy she was to her dad throughout her years, and she ended it by saying that she was blessed to do all this travel because it was “bank rolled by the savings of a man who lives frugally every day, wakes up at 4:30am for work for the past 20-plus years, and wanted his daughter to see more than he ever can.” I almost started tearing up when I read this.

A lot of people like to say that they want to hear about other people’s experiences particularly around travel so that they can live vicariously through them. But it is the most touching when it comes from someone who has actually sacrificed a lot for you and literally is, every day, living vicariously through you and your experiences because they just never got the chance to. I thought about my own dad as I reflected on this woman’s post, and I thought about all the things I’ve shared with him over the years, whether it was my good and bad moments in college, an experience he never fully got himself, or travel through Asia or Europe. There are things my dad’s taught me through the years, but as I am an adult now living and breathing experiences he will never have, it’s almost like it’s my turn to teach and educate him now.

Today and tomorrow are long days of our team summit, which includes colleagues of mine flying out from San Francisco and Los Angeles to spend time with our team. At our team dinner tonight, one of my colleagues was sharing that she’ll be leaving for Europe for a two-week vacation, and she mentioned to another colleague that I’ll be spending about 10 days in Japan soon.

“You’re always traveling!” a colleague exclaimed, half jealous and half frustrated. “When do you find time to just take off?”

Mildly annoyed, I responded, “I just make the decision and I go. If you really want something, you just do it.”

This colleague is obsessed with work. I’m honestly not sure if he’s more obsessed with work or making it look like he works all the time. I have a strong feeling it’s the latter.

After dinner, my Europe-bound colleague and I shared a ride home. She expressed her frustration with our workaholic colleague and said, “It’s really not that difficult to take a trip and enjoy life. If you want to do something, you just stop talking about it and just do it. Making it seem like you work all the time isn’t healthy, and the only person who is really losing here is you.”

I agree with her, but at this point in my life, I really don’t spend that much time thinking about people like this guy because I just think they are sad and pathetic and ultimately jealous of what I do and have. If all you want to do is spend time arguing with agency clients and looking at Excel spread sheets, something is terribly wrong with your life, and I don’t have time to talk to you. It’s that simple now.

Tonight, Chris and I went down to Chinatown for dinner to meet and eat with my cousins’ cousin, her husband, four kids, and friend, as well as my actual cousin and his wife, who have a dysfunctional relationship (and an even more dysfunctional one around their almost three-year-old son. My cousin’s cousin and her family are visiting New York from Montreal, and they reached out to us a few days ago to arrange a meal to see us. It’s actually pretty amusing (and dysfunctional to outsiders, I’m sure) that I won’t see my cousin and his wife in Brooklyn unless there is a visitor, or to celebrate one of their son’s birthdays. They have a marriage that no one would approve of in which they are constantly arguing and threatening to leave each other and take the kid with them, they can’t stand each others’ in-laws, and they don’t agree on anything regarding how to raise their son. So you can imagine why I want to be near that as little as possible.

I was actually looking forward to seeing our visiting cousin because from what I remember when I had last seen her four years ago at a wedding, she, unlike all of her siblings, has a personality and is fun to talk to. The funny thing about it is that I probably wanted to see her more than her own cousin did, and they’re technically the related ones, not me. My cousin made it clear he didn’t really want to be at the dinner and was just there out of obligation. He used his phone for a lot of the meal, barely said anything to the visiting cousin, and made little effort to talk to his wife’s sister, who also joined, or me or Chris. They also arrived late and left early because their son was at home with a fever, and of course, it’s a rush to get back to the child because who knows what could happen in the grandma’s care.

That’s what my family is — a lot of obligation and guilt and not a lot of actual desire to see each other. It’s sad, but it’s also comforting to know that those obligatory meetings don’t have to happen that often. And at least my cousin’s cousin is an interesting, seemingly normal person with a normal marriage and family life. Or maybe we can really just attribute that to their being Canadian and not American.

I’m going to admit this out loud: I actually miss my parents today. I saw them for five days in San Francisco and came back here, and well, they aren’t here. I go through a lot of complicated emotions when it comes to my parents. I love them dearly and know that they’ve done a lot for me to have the life I am so fortunate and privileged to have today. But I also grapple with the way they chose to treat Ed, in life and in death, and I struggle with the individuals that they are.

As loving and affectionate as my mother is, she can be extremely controlling and manipulative, much to the detriment of our relationship and the relationships she shares with everyone else, even including my dad. And as goofy and cute as my dad can be, he’s emotionally removed, childish and holds grudges like there’s no tomorrow, which drives me mad when I am with him for extended periods of time. I realized this past weekend that whenever I leave my dad now, I always hug him, and he actually hugs me back. And I realized that “now” means after Ed has passed. When Ed was still here, my dad never hugged me. The most he’d never do is pat me on the back when I tried to hug him. It’s a little different now, though, between us, I guess.

Sometimes, I wish I could see them more often, just in shorter bouts of time. I wish I could see them a little bit more than just two to four times a year when I fly home, usually for about a week and a half at a time. But then I remember how tense it can be when we’re together for too long, and I think that maybe we see each other just enough. I don’t know. Maybe I’m not sure what I want.

Today, I spent the majority of my day at the Facebook headquarters in Menlo Park for an all-day client meeting. Between endless meetings and presentations, I got to enjoy the perks that Facebook employees and guests get to relish during their visits to the Facebook campus: endless varied food options, from cold pressed, fresh squeezed juices to on-campus smoked BBQ, even crispy bacon vs. soft bacon as options (it’s *that* specific and catered to individual tastes here); a free for all ice cream and desserts shop; fully covered washed and folded laundry; even a poster printing workshop where you can create posters with images and messages to your heart’s content. The conference rooms have fun names like “Chips and Salsa,” and around every corner, there is a snack bar full of Mighty Leaf tea bags, an espresso maker, and at least 15 different types of energy and granola bars. The Facebook Fifteen is a true reality for most new employees.

If Ed were a ghost, he’d be a friendly one. I know this because whenever I come back to our house in San Francisco, although the air is cold and slightly damp, it never feels hostile the way you think it would if someone who once lived here committed suicide. The room we once shared growing up seems bright and warm. I know his energy still lingers all over this house, but especially in areas where he spent a lot of time, such as on the long couch in the living room, his desk in the dining room, and his bed in our bedroom, which we kept because my mom couldn’t bear to give it up. After all this time, it’s not like the energy of a dead person that lingers, but rather the energy of someone who is still alive and out there, somewhere.

Since he passed away, every time I’ve come home, one of the first things I do is dust and sponge clean his old dresser in our room. I clean his framed photo and dust the vases. I sponge off the top surface of the dresser as though it’s never been wiped before. It’s where my mom displays the large framed photograph of him that we had up during his funeral. It’s surrounded by two vases, two orchid plants that were given to us when he passed, and a koala stuffed animal I bought in Melbourne. I also leave his service program up there. I noticed that one of the orchids is actually budding right now and about to bloom. Maybe it senses that Ed’s two-year anniversary mark is coming, so it’s time to start flowering.

I’m not fully sure how I developed this routine. I think I became a little obsessive about doing it because in some way, it felt like a way that I was acknowledging him, like, “Hey, Ed! I’m home! I’m here! Can you see me now? I’m touching you! I’m cleaning after you like I did when you were alive!” I always want to see and communicate with him, so maybe this is my weird way of attempting to be more in-your-face with him, even though his face clearly isn’t here.

Two damn years. I still can’t believe it.