There was a moment—one of those rare, raw moments—when my organic father leaned in close, hand on my neck, and asked, “Can I ask you something?”
His voice had that serious weight to it, like he was about to drop something profound.
“Sure,” I said.
“When you started your business and needed money… why didn’t you ask me?”
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.
“If I had asked you, would you have given it to me?”
He exhaled, paused for just a second too long, and finally said, “Probably not.”
And there it was. The kind of honesty that only stings because you already knew the answer. He wasn’t built to give. He was a whore for money, clutching every dollar like it was his last. Not that he ever really knew how to make it, just how to keep it from anyone who might actually need it.
But life has a sick sense of humor. Years later, with both of us retired—him stagnating, me thriving—we carried on not like father and son, but like old drinking buddies, the kind that only meet up because of routine, not because there’s anything left between them. I enjoyed his company, I really did. Until I started noticing a pattern.
I was paying for everything.
The steak dinners. The beers. The hotels. The fishing trips. The flights. The goddamn groceries.
At first, it was easy to justify—he was my father, right? But after years of shelling out tens of thousands on his whims, it became clear. I wasn’t his son—I was his ATM.
And the thing about ATMs? They don’t talk back.
Then one day, he calls me up. “I want to build a log home in Colorado. Need $80,000.”
No hesitation. No contract. I wired him the money.
Why? Because I wanted him to have something of his own. Something outside of that marriage—outside of that woman. She had him by the balls, made him feel like a kept man, dangling her inherited money over his head like a prison warden jingling keys.
I thought maybe, just maybe, this project would give him some purpose.
It didn’t.
Years passed. The land sat empty. And when I finally asked, “So what’s happening with that land?” I got a mess of excuses.
So I did what I should’ve done from the start—I gave him a deadline.
If you’re not building on it, I need my money back. No interest, just the principle.
He finally quitclaimed the land over to me. No cash in hand, just a headache. The responsibility of selling it, dealing with taxes, commissions. I tried swapping it for property in Mexico—nothing. Finally, I had to offload it for $70,000. Ten grand lost, that’s not including the loss of interest I could have been making if I didn’t give to him. And he didn’t so much as blink.
Not a “sorry.” Not a “thanks.”
Nothing.
Then came the Mexico trip—Los Barriles, Baja. I rented a beachfront house, brought my daughters, and even let him bring his son along, thinking maybe—just maybe—this could be something like a family trip.
I should’ve known better.
I footed the bill for everything—food, drinks, excursions. The only thing we split was the car rental, and even that felt like charity. I was covering the tequila-fueled nights, the restaurant tabs, the grocery runs—feeding the man who had no problem taking but never giving.
And then it hit me.
My daughter pulled me aside, frowning.
“Dad, why are you paying for everything? Why doesn’t Grandpa pay for anything?”
The question hung in the air, a gut punch wrapped in innocence.
And that’s when I saw it clearly—he wasn’t just a bad father. He was a fucking horrible grandfather.
No birthdays, no Christmas presents, no phone calls just to say hello. I used to think it was his wife keeping him distant, keeping him on a leash, but no. That was just an excuse I let myself believe. The truth? He didn’t give a shit. He had zero interest in my daughters, in my family, in anything outside himself.
But his son? Oh, that was different.
He’d take off with him for hours, arranging private fishing trips, boat excursions—just the two of them. What the fuck? No invitation, no consideration. He left us stranded without a vehicle like we were an afterthought—like we didn’t even exist.
And then, as if to put the cherry on top of his selfish, festering pile of shit, he decided to leave early. Not a heads-up, not a conversation—just an announcement that he and his golden child were bailing days before the trip was over.
And then—then—he had the balls to ask me, “Since I won’t be here for the car, do I still have to pay my half?”
I saw red.
I grabbed him by the back of the neck, leaned in close, and hissed, “If you weren’t my father, I’d kick your fucking ass right now.”
He squirmed away, looking less like a man and more like a rat caught stuffing its face with stolen food.
And that’s when my mother’s words echoed in my head.
“These shit-don’t-stink types—just wait, you’ll see.”
She was right.
She had been right all along.
And that was the beginning of the end.
Then came my downfall—my divorce.
The court wiped me clean, child support drained my accounts, and I stood at the edge of a financial abyss, staring into nothing. Everything I had built, gone.
So I did what sons are supposed to be able to do—I asked my father for help. Not a handout, not a bailout, just $5,000. Enough to keep me from sinking.
“Oh yeah, yeah, sure. No problem,” he said.
And then… nothing.
Days passed. Then weeks. Silence.
I asked again. This time, he sent $1,000. A few weeks later, another $1,000. Then he vanished, like a bad loan. When I pressed for the rest, he dodged, suddenly preoccupied with his daughter’s DUI—somehow twisting it into being my fault—before disappearing completely.
For three months, I struggled. Couldn’t pay rent. Couldn’t buy food. Couldn’t do shit. Meanwhile, where was he?
On a safari in South Africa.
And the bastard had the nerve to send me pictures.
Not a dollar. Not a word. Just a grinning old man standing next to some sedated lion, pretending he was still the king of anything.
Then his son-in-law reached out.
“I heard you’re struggling. We’d like to send you some money.”
And that’s when something inside me broke.
Because it wasn’t his responsibility to help me.
It was my father’s.
The same father I had wired eighty grand to without hesitation. The same father who let me foot the bill for every trip, every meal, every goddamn experience we ever had together. The same father I had carried through our entire relationship.
But when I needed him? He had nothing.
Not a dime. Not an apology. Not even a phone call.
And that’s when I saw it—really saw it.
I had spent my whole life trying to get something out of him that wasn’t there.
Not love. Not respect. Not even the most basic level of decency.
Just a hollow man, hiding in his castle in Colorado, surrounded by the clutter of his past, pretending he was still relevant.
We went from talking every day—hours of conversation, like a real connection—to nothing.
And you know what?
Good.
Is he missed? Maybe in the way you miss an old habit, one that never served you but was just there, lingering.
Am I better without him?
No fucking question.
