The Death Of My Father

“Who’s my dad?” I asked my mom.

The dinner table went silent.

She didn’t know how to respond.

How do you explain to a 4-year-old that their father is a crack addict? That he chose a crack pipe over his own sons?

My mother told me about this moment when I was 16.

Up to that point, I shrugged off the idea of having a father. That it was “no big deal.”

Our relationship followed a cycle:

1. My father would disappear for months on a crack-bender.
2. He’d run out of money.
3. He’d check himself into rehab and get clean for a few months.
4. He’d take my brother out to dinner once in awhile, telling us “I’ll never touch drugs again.”

Inevitably, he’d repeat step 1.

My father felt like a distant friend you’d catch up with once in a while rather than a dad to look up to.

I didn’t feel much emotion toward him because of that… but I did feel a responsibility.

My brother and I were the only things he could look to in life with pride and genuine love.

I didn’t have the heart to take that away from him.

So for years, we’d go through endless cycles of rehab, relapse, and empty promises to get clean.

Until one summer in 2022.

I paid my father $7,000 for his car so he could clear his debts. Only to later find out he lied to me.

He used the money to go on a crack binge.

And the cherry on top?

The car needed a bunch of repairs (that he didn’t tell me about until he delivered it).

It was a slap in the face.

I spent years trying.

Trying to be patient.
Trying to be understanding.
Trying to be the adult in our relationship.

But after 24 years, I snapped.

My face went hot. Tears blurred my vision before I could blink them back. There he stood, 10 feet away.

The man who gave me life. And all I felt was disgust.

“Do you know how fucking hard it was to grow up without a father? The shit we had to go through? You’re a fucking loser.”

The words bursted out my mouth like an untreated pipe building pressure for years.

I was 24 years old. But I felt like the same helpless 13-year-old Dakota.

All this time, I told myself I didn’t care that I didn’t have a father.

But I guess it’s easier to pretend you don’t need something than admit you’ll never have it.

I wanted to hate him.

But in that moment, I saw the helpless kid in his eyes.

A kid who never knew his father.
A kid who was molested by his priest.
A kid who used drugs to cope with his pain.

A kid who wanted to be a good father, but didn’t know how.

His eyes welled up with tears, realizing the pain he caused our family. He tried to explain how sorry he was, but I turned my back and went inside.

It wasn’t until this year, that I felt something shift in him.

My father saw me build my ghostwriting business from nothing over the years.

And for the first time in his life, he wanted to stop basing his life around running away from pain.

He wanted to chase purpose.

Lack of purpose is why I lost my mother to drugs. I knew this was what he needed to finally get clean.

So at 50-years-old, I started coaching my father.

And to my surprise, he actually showed up. He wrote daily, sharing his journey online.

He was no Shakespeare, but he was getting better fast.

For the first time in 27 years, I felt something I’d never felt with him:

Hope.

Not hope that he’d stay clean this time.

Hope that he’d have a reason to stay clean.

Hope that we could finally have the relationship I pretended not to want.

And things were looking up. In May, 2025, he’d been sober for ~9 months, writing for 6.

Then, his birthday rolled around.

I was in Colombia at the time. He called to tell me he was going out of town to meet up with a lady friend.

My stomach dropped.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said. “You always relapse when you do that.”

He told me not to worry. That the woman had been sober for a while now.

I threw my hands up. What else could I say?

“Alright, well, be safe please. And call me if you ever have any urges.”

The next day, I called him. “Happy birthday, old man.”

He picked up. Same voice. Same energy. Everything seemed fine.

But I was cautious. I’d been through this too many times before.

The next day, I called again to check in.
No answer.

I called a few more times that day.
No answer.

I called the next day. And the day after that.
No answer.

I recognized this pattern from countless other times:

Relapse.

But something felt different this time.

I can’t explain it. Just a pit in my stomach that wouldn’t go away.

I told myself I was being paranoid. That he’d call me back in a few days, embarrassed, asking for help getting back into rehab.
That’s how it always went.

A couple days later, I got a FaceTime.

My brother.

Before he said a word, I felt it. The weight in his look.

“I’m driving to Grandma’s right now,” he said. His voice tight. Controlled anger masking something darker underneath.

“The police showed up at her door.”

My chest went hollow. He didn’t need to say the next part out loud.

7 years ago, we’d lived through this exact moment with our mother.

• Police at the door.
• Same conversation.
• Same ending.

Our suspicions were confirmed when my brother arrived at the house to talk to the officers.

Our father was found dead, lying on the bed from an overdose.

Neither of us cried. We just sat there, two brothers who’d spent their entire lives waiting for this call.

I hung up the phone.

I sat there on my coach in Medellín, staring at the wall.

Waiting for something to hit me.

Tears. Anger. Sadness. Fucking anything.

Nothing came.

For the past 7 months, friends would ask how I was doing. I’d tell them I was fine. And I meant it.
I was fine.

Which somehow felt worse than being devastated.

I kept waiting for grief to show up. For the weight of losing both parents to finally break me.

But it never came.

Until now.

I’ve finally stopped pushing down my feelings and am doing the one thing that brings me clarity:

Writing.

And for the first time, I grieve his death.

Because I didn’t just lose him, I lost hope for a father.

But I think back to that day I snapped on him. The time I looked him in the eyes and saw the kid in him.

He wasn’t a villain. Not even a bad person.

He was just a kid who turned to drugs because no one taught him how to deal with pain. A kid who wanted to love his sons but didn’t know how.

Trying to fix himself with the wrong tools. Over and over again. Until it killed him.

This understanding has helped me release the anger, disappointment, and resentment I held toward him.

And in the absence of those feelings, I feel something I never felt toward him:

Forgiveness.

And now when I think about my future, about the family I want to build one day…

I realize something:

My highest aim in life isn’t to build the biggest business or make the most money.

It’s to be the father my dad never got to be.

One day, my kids won’t have to ask ‘Who’s my dad?’

Because I’ll be there.

Not because I’m better than him. But because he showed me, through his absence, exactly what presence looks like.

That’s how I honor him now.

Not by remembering the father he was, but by becoming the father he wanted to be.

Your Canadian friend,

Dakota