Fifty years as a father gives you plenty of time to reflect — and on this Father’s Day, that’s exactly what I’m doing.

I became a dad at 19, barely more than a boy myself when Steve was born. Then came Barry and Joanne during my tours in Ulster, and so began the pattern: long absences, short visits, a life shaped by duty to the Royal Marines. Their mum did the heavy lifting at home, patching over the void I left behind.

It’s one thing to serve your country. It’s another to realise, too late, that your kids were growing up while you were serving everyone but them. They turned out brilliantly — all three of them — but the truth is, they raised themselves in many ways.

To Steve, Baz, JoJo — and to Jason and Janine, who came into my life later and saw a steadier version of me (though still often far away) — I’m grateful for your strength, your patience, and your hearts.

People talk about hindsight like it’s a gift. Maybe it is. But as a father, what we really need is foresight — the kind that helps you make the right call before it’s too late. I didn’t have that then. I do now.

And so I remember my own father today — Bill Plunkett — who always made family his priority. He joined the RAF in 1939 as an Irishman determined to serve his new home. He was a man of decency, sacrifice, and unwavering love. Mum was no less a hero, working through the Blitz as an auxiliary nurse. They were a team. A generation made of stronger stuff, perhaps.

Thinking of them today — and wishing I had lived more like the man he was.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.