I thought I didn’t want kids. My father’s sudden death changed my mind.

Here, my dad and I are enjoying a sunny day in Porto de Galinhas, Brazil. Unexpectedly losing him after a heart attack made me realize that having kids was something I might want to do after all.

“What are some of the fears you have about parenting?” my therapist asked me on a damp February morning, during our weekly session. I sunk deeper into the plush couch, unable to meet her gaze as I spoke. “Um. Well, there’s the lack of a national paid parental leave policy, so we’d have to pay for daycare pretty early on, which is expensive. I’m already struggling to get things done while working full time, so throwing a child in the mix seems like a bad idea,” I said. “Oh. And being pregnant in Texas.,” I added.

I watched as she jotted down notes on her yellow legal pad. Meanwhile, the list continued to grow in my head. Bringing a child into our warming world. Living an ocean away from my mother. Transatlantic plane rides with screaming children.

“What about something positive?” she prompted. I cleared my throat before saying meekly, “I hear the love for a child is unlike anything else?”

For as long as I can remember, I didn’t want children. This was partially due to the patriarchal gender roles I saw in my family. I was also unable to envision succeeding in my career while juggling parenthood. Then there were the logistical challenges, like Texas’ dismal maternal mortality rate. And so, after getting married, I would smile and act demur when eager relatives asked about my husband and I’s plans for children.

Then everything changed

A year ago, on a sweltering August morning, days after his 65th birthday, my father collapsed from a heart attack while playing tennis and died on the way to the hospital.

Our lives were completely upended and what followed after his death was unimaginable pain and grief. In those early days of mourning, I sorted through each and every text message, voice memo, and letter we exchanged, to blunt an insatiable craving for his presence.

During this time, I came across an anecdote he’d written in our family’s group chat for my brother’s birthday. In it, he talks about a day he was spearfishing with a friend. The friend, knowing my dad had practiced a variety of sports like diving, sailing, and soccer, asked which was his favorite. My father stopped to think, though he could tell his friend wanted the answer to be spearfishing. Instead, he replied, “The most intense and ardent sport of them all was raising my children.” He added, “I never had a moment of regret.”

The message was sweet, but as I recalled our tumultuous lives, filled with layoffs, medical emergencies, and international moves, I assumed he’d exaggerated for our sake. But my father’s life had never been easy, even before children. I recalled our childhood, watching cartoons on Saturday mornings with us, his squeaky laughter filling the entire room. Then there were the times when he’d weave tall tales, like the deinonychus, a relative of the velociraptor, that (allegedly) scarred his stomach. Or his persistence in teaching me to ride a bicycle, despite my lack of coordination. I finally understood that for him, the joys of fatherhood transcended the adversity he experienced.

I started to feel differently

After reading about what having children brought to my dad’s life, I realized that I wanted to experience what he had felt too. My husband was supportive, as he had already been feeling ready for parenthood.

Since making this decision, my initial fears have not disappeared. If anything, they’ve multiplied as I worry about the potential of conceiving, miscarrying, and expensive fertility treatments. Rather than focusing on my fears, though, I am trying to keep my dad’s memory alive through this, devising ways to share his writing, his art, and his favorite books and music with any children we may have.

I feel a combination of grief and guilt that he never got to experience being a grandfather. But I know he would be tremendously proud of me for coming to this decision. And he’d probably be a little bit smug that he helped me get here.