From diagnosis to death, my dad’s journey was a callously swift nine months. A strange lump in his thigh turned out to be osteosarcoma, which then became the subject of aggressive chemotherapy and then – after metastasizing and spreading to his lungs – became unavoidably terminal.

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What I wish others knew was that grief isn’t always a melancholy experience. Nearly three years on, my happy days far outweigh the sad ones. Most of my thoughts about my dad are comforting: his laugh; his penchant for yoghurt; the way our dog looked at him.

Read more in The Oh Nine.