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“There’s so much I wish I could ask my dad… but it’s too late now.” That single sentence has lived in my mind for years. It shows up without warning — when I stumble across an old photo, drive past a place we used to go, or hear a song he loved. And suddenly I’m reminded of how little I truly knew about him. I thought I knew who he was. But when he passed, I realized how many chapters of his life I’d never even opened. I don’t know what his first car was. Or who he was at 21, believing the whole world was ahead of him. I don’t know how terrified or proud he felt the day I was born. I don’t know what he dreamed of, what kept him awake at night, or which moments made him feel like he’d finally “made it.” All those stories — the ones that shaped him — vanished with him. And I would give anything to ask him even one more question. A few days after the funeral, I walked into his workshop. The smell of sawdust still hung in the air. His coffee mug sat exactly where he left it. The radio was still tuned to the same old country station. It felt like he had just stepped outside for a moment… but I knew he wasn’t coming back. I ran my hand along his workbench — every nick and stain felt like a memory, but none of them spoke. The hammer he used every day. The faded photo pinned to the wall. The dent in the stool he always sat on. Everything meant something. And I never asked what. Because I assumed I had time. That’s the part that breaks you — you always think there will be more time. You tell yourself, “I’ll ask him next weekend.” Or “We’ll talk when life slows down.” But weekends disappear. And someday quietly turns into never. We think we know our parents, but we only know the version of them we grew up with — not the person they were before us, not the stories they carried long before we arrived. And when they’re gone, you realize how much you never knew. You’d give anything to sit across from them one more time and ask what it felt like to fall in love, what made them proud, what shattered them, what they learned too late. But those questions leave with them. That regret changed me. One night, I sat down with a notebook and started writing all the questions I wished I had asked my dad. At first they were simple. Then deeper. Page after page. And that’s when it hit me: I couldn’t get his story back — but maybe I could help others save theirs. That’s how Dad, I Want To Hear Your Story began. It’s a guided journal filled with thoughtful prompts — questions designed to bring out the memories, lessons, and small details that would otherwise fade away. Questions like: “What’s a childhood moment you’ll never forget?” “What’s the hardest lesson life ever taught you?” “What advice would you want your children to hold onto someday?” Each page helps your dad open up — not just to tell his story, but to leave it behind for you. So one day, when you miss him most, you can still hear his voice in his handwriting, feel his presence in his words, and keep a piece of him close. This isn’t just a book. It’s a time capsule — a legacy only he can create. This isn’t about loss. It’s about preserving the people you love while you still can. Because one day, all you will want is one more story, one more answer, one more moment. And this time, you can make sure you have them. That’s why I created Dad, I Want To Hear Your Story: so no one else has to live with the same regret I did. Give it to your dad. Ask him to fill it out, one question at a time. Because you can replace many things in life — but not this. Not him. 👉 Tap Shop Now to start saving your dad’s story — before it’s too late. 👉 https://nivora.co.za/products/dad-tell-me-your-story