My dad died when I was 14. I'm jealous of all the people who got to spend more time with him.

• My dad adopted me when I was 4, but to me he was always my father. 
• He died suddenly when I was 14. 
• Our time together was only a small percentage of the life he lived, and we missed on so much. 

Being part of the Dead Dads Club™ is hard, but I doubt that's surprising. It doesn't seem to get easier with time, either.

My dad adopted me on April 27, 2004, when I was 4. He and my mom met after I was born, but he was always my father.

I love it when people share stories about my dad. He's not around to make more memories, so it's nice to reminisce on the ones he was part of. But one of the things they don't teach in the Dead Dad Club™ is that as kids of deceased parents, we have to deal with the fact that we might not have been around for the majority of these memories.

Having limited memories is hard

With grief, it sometimes feels like grasping at straws to find something new to think about when it comes to him. He died suddenly 10 years ago when I was 14. We spent nearly every day going back and forth to school and sports practices, talking, and listening to music in his truck.

Then it was all over and our time together was dwindled into memories.

So many people had precious moments with my dad long before I was around, and my dad had many without me, too. Of the years he was alive, I was only part of a small percentage, so sometimes I selfishly feel like I got robbed out of experiences and conversations we should've had that he had with someone else.

My dad loved family more than anything

My dad walked my sister, who is 15 years older than me, down the aisle at her wedding. I don't think I ever saw him happier than he was that day, aside from when my nieces were born. Forget Ron or Ronnie: Dad, Papa, and Uncle Ronnie were his favorite names to be called.

He was an overgrown child. Whenever he was around a random little kid in the grocery store or a restaurant, he'd look down at them and say in his big, booming voice: "How are you today?" Usually, they'd freak out that a strange man was talking to them, and he'd begrudgingly chuckle a bit. Sometimes, though, he'd make a new little friend.

He was the biggest supporter and cheerleader you'd find. He attended many of my cousins' sporting events and was at every one of my softball games, dance recitals, and cross-country and track meets. I think the activity we did the most together was playing catch in the front yard, followed by doing cannonballs in the pool. We also ate our fair share of French silk pie together, and every time I eat a slice, I think of him.

I think about what he's missing often

But he died before I ran my fastest times in high school — at the track meet in his hometown, of course — and before he could see me graduate. He didn't see me start and finish college and grad school, move to a big city, get my first job in my field, and meet someone special. (He never met anybody I dated, so I guess good for them, he would've left a scary first impression.)

He won't be there to walk me down the aisle or be called Papa by my kids when I have them. But I'll be sure to tell them about him.

I'm glad so many people shared fond times with him and know just how selfless, loving, and hilarious he was. But it's hard not to feel jealous, especially as time keeps moving and reminding me that soon, there will have been more years without him than I spent with him. Still, I hold memories close — mine and the ones others kindly share with me.