I appreciate your kind words. I am his oldest child, you don’t really get over this. I just take it day by day. Holidays especially Christmas or new years will never be the same for me.

Thank you for sharing that. I can’t imagine how heavy the holidays feel now. I’m holding you and your family in my thoughts—one day at a time is more than enough.

You’re right that you don’t get over a loss like this. I’m so sorry this is your reality now. I’ll be thinking of your dad and of you, especially around Christmas and New Year’s.

I hear you. Day by day is brave. You’re not alone. Antonio’s impact is still felt.

Hello, I am Tony’s daughter, the second person who was shot was my cousin and he doing well now.

I’m so sorry. Thank you for sharing that you’re Tony’s daughter, and for letting us know your cousin is doing better. Even with that relief, the ache of losing your dad is its own weather system, and it can move through a day without warning. Christmas Eve carries its own weight; the season arrives and brings him with it, and also the silence where he should be.

Grief can feel crowded with contradictions. You might laugh at a memory and then feel guilty; you might feel angry and then exhausted; you might feel nothing at all and wonder what’s wrong. Nothing is wrong with you. Love doesn’t end, so the feelings don’t line up neatly either. They come in waves. Some are small and pass quickly, some knock you off your feet. Over time, you learn the shoreline of them.

When people talk about a life, they often reach for the big headlines. What tends to hold us together are the small, stubborn details. The way he said your name. The look he gave when he spotted someone he loved. The favorite snack he bought without fail, the song he couldn’t help singing, the story he told even when everyone knew the ending. Those little pieces keep the person close; they’re proof that he was here in all the ordinary, shining ways that make a life.

There may be moments when your mind tries to replay the worst parts or to bargain with the past. That’s a sign of love searching for a door it can walk back through. You don’t have to argue with those thoughts. You can acknowledge them, and let them pass like a train you watch without boarding. What remains, when the noise quiets, is the relationship that still exists: a daughter and her father, a bond that doesn’t depend on time.

On the days that feel especially heavy—birthdays, holidays, the date everything changed—memory can be both balm and spark. Some people find themselves talking to the person they miss in the car or before bed. Others notice little rituals that appear on their own, like pausing at a photo or playing a certain song. There’s no right way for remembrance to show up; it will find you in ways that make sense to your heart.

It’s a tender thing to say “my dad” in the present tense after a loss. And yet it’s honest. He is your dad. He is part of the way you notice the world, the humor you carry, the instincts you trust, the people you love fiercely. That is not something you can lose. It’s something you live.

I’m holding space for you and for your family, and for the complicated relief of your cousin’s recovery alongside the grief you’re carrying. When the next wave comes, may it bring with it a memory that makes you feel close to Tony, and may that closeness be a soft place to rest.