Actress Jennifer Metcalfe was 15 when her dad died of cancer. On Father's Day, she writes a moving letter to him

Jennifer, 25, says her success is down to her dad's love and support

Dear Dad,
I'm sitting here in one of my favourite pieces of clothing. It isn't a designer dress, or even a pair of killer heels. It's a tatty cardigan. It's seen better days - it's grey from age and smells a bit musty, with just a hint of Paco Rabanne aftershave. But it was yours, Dad, and it's one of the few tangible links I have to you.

After you died, I slept in it every night for three years. Now I snuggle into it whenever I'm really missing you - at times when, if you were still here, I'd be ringing you for a chat or for some advice.

Like most daughters, I was a daddy's girl. But you weren't just my hero - you were my best friend too. I was only 15 ¿when you were diagnosed with cancer. Six months later, you were dead. You were 63.

Perhaps I should have adjusted to that by now, but I haven't because there's still so much I want to tell you about, to share with you.

Mum and I talk about you all the time. All those things I would have been so excited to tell you now only remind me of the Dad-sized hole left in my life. On the day I marry, it won't be you holding my hand to calm my nerves before we walk down the aisle. You won't be there when I have my first baby, and you haven't been here to see me fulfil my dreams of making it as an actress. You always said I would be a star one day. Can you see me from where you are? Do you know you still inspire me every day?

Jennifer was always a daddy's girl

I talk to you all the time and often dream about you. Sometimes you're fit and well - just like you were before the cancer took hold. Other times, I know you've gone but I ask if you can still see me. You say you can. I hope so, because I think you'd be proud of the woman your little girl has become.

I was the baby of the family, and you loved spoiling me. You had five children from your first marriage, and Mum had two sons from hers, but from the age of five there was just you, me and Mum at home. If I wanted your attention, I would jump into your lap, knock your glasses off your nose and crumple up your paper. Do you remember?

It was you who encouraged me every step of the way when I decided I wanted to be an actress. I remember the day I got my first acting job. I was 13. You picked me up from school and told me there was a message for me to call my agent. The smile on your face said it all.

I'd give anything to bring you back and show you what I do now. Seeing me on TV in Hollyoaks - you'd have loved that!

I know you'd be checking out my boyfriends too, and that none of them would be good enough in your eyes. I know you would have warned them to treat me well - in fact, I worry you might have had a lot to say about my choice in men!

I wish we could still do little things together - go shopping or camping, or dance round the kitchen like we used to. You wanted to take me for a drink in a pub when I turned 18. 'I'm going to walk in with you on my arm, the proudest Dad in the world,' you'd say. But we never did it because you died too soon.

Colin and Jennifer shared a special bond

I didn't find out you were ill until the summer of 1998. You'd had bowel problems for three years, but doctors just blamed it on your diet or constipation. While I was away on holiday with friends, you went into hospital for tests - and that's when they found out the truth.

When I got back, Mum drove me to see you in Bradford Royal Infirmary. You didn't let on that anything was wrong, it was only as we were on our way home that Mum told me you had a tumour. She was certain you'd get better, so I was too. And you were my dad - you were invincible.

You began radiotherapy and you looked so well. You didn't lose your hair or your athletic build, and your skin was glowing. But the cancer was stronger than you and, in the end, this was one fight you couldn't win.

In November you were admitted to Manorlands Hospice. I didn't even know what a hospice was - or what it meant for you. You waited until there was just the two of us to tell me the truth.

'They can't do anything for me, love,' you said. I asked what you meant, but before you had time to answer, the realisation hit me. You were dying. It felt like someone had reached inside and was squeezing my heart into pieces. All I could whisper was: 'How long, Dad?'

With your voice breaking, you said you hoped months, but it could be weeks. Too choked to speak, I leaned into you for a cuddle and refused to give in to the wracking sobs welling up inside me. I loved you so much. I couldn't bear to think that your life was coming to an end, or that you were suffering.

Jennifer as Mercedes in Hollyoaks with screen sister Carmel

From that moment, everything was a blur. It felt like it was happening to someone else. I know I kept doing everyday things and living my normal life, going to school and to auditions. Every day I visited you in the hospice, and every day you were weaker. You stopped breathing so many times in those final hours.

We all gathered around your bed - Mum, my auntie Joan, your children and my cousin James. We knew it was only a matter of time. You were fighting until the end, and we couldn't bear for you to be in any more pain. 'Just go, Dad, just go,' I whispered. Everyone was crying, holding you and telling you how much you were loved.

I stayed by your side until the next day, then I went home to rest. I lay on my bed and told Mum I'd go back tomorrow. Mum said: 'I'll leave you here for 10 minutes to think about that because I don't want you to spend the rest of your life regretting never seeing your Dad again.' The minute she'd said it, I knew she was right. I wanted to be with you until the very end.

So I went back to the hospice and sat with you, holding your hand and chatting. You were so drugged with morphine that the moment between life and death was hard to tell, but eventually you drifted into sleep and your eyes stayed closed. I watched as your chest rose, then fell, and you were still. You were gone. It was January 8, 1999. A nurse told us to say our goodbyes. You'd suffered so much, no amount of tears would bring you back.

I spent the days after your death helping to plan your funeral, making cards and writing a poem. But in the end I was too overwhelmed to read it out at the service. I began, but the words just wouldn't come and, as I started to sob, the priest had to take over. I insisted on playing Puff Daddy's I'll Be Missing You and putting a cuddly cat in your coffin so you'd have some company.

Drowning in grief, I made myself cope. I relied on Mum, my friends, my boyfriend and school to pull me through the next few months. That was my legacy from you - you'd made me strong enough to deal with your loss.

In your memory I've created a gallery of photographs of our good times together - but they're there to make me laugh, not cry. I choose to remember what we had, not what I've lost, and when I feel tears coming I summon up the happy memories and chase away the sad ones.

I am who I am today because of you. Your death changed me and taught me some important lessons. The first is that if I can handle losing you, my rock, at 15, I can handle anything. I've also learned that I've got to get a buzz out of every day because you never know what life has in store.

Today is Father's Day, so I'll watch a home video of you and have a little anniversary just for us. I know I'll cry loads when I see the video - that's why I don't watch them too often.

Everything I do is to make you proud of me - that's all I've ever wanted.

AS TOLD TO LIZZIE BAXTER PHOTOGRAPHY: JAMIE HUGHES, LIME PICTURES HAIR & MAKE-UP: TALLY BOOKBINDER AT NEMESIS

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