I remember the first time I saw my organic father. I didn’t need a paternity test, a long speech, or a blood draw. He came walking over the horizon in some dusty park, and even before he reached the bench where my mom and I sat, I knew—I knew. This man was a clone. Mannerisms like mine. Energy like mine. Same tempo. Same tilt of the head. It was like watching my future self in a Hawaiian shirt, walking toward me with a casual stride like life never gave him a reason to rush. No one had told me my stepdad wasn’t my real father, not yet. But there he was, this man walking straight out of the sun like an extra in a spaghetti western, and I felt the pull in my gut, the weird electric familiarity. That’s blood. That’s mine. That’s him.
It wasn’t a father-son reunion, not really. It was more like meeting a strange roommate the universe forgot to assign. But over time, we stitched a few memories together—Baja, Mexico, some fly fishing trips in Colorado, a frozen nightmare of a weekend in Kansas, the occasional wanderings down Highway 70 that made you feel like time slowed down just for you and the road. Then there were weekends with tools in our hands, working on the house, sweating through drywall and shared silence. We were building more than walls—maybe not much, but more.
The thing with my father—my organic father—is that he liked the idea of the cowboy life, just like me. He romanticized it. Not the real version, with saddle sores and dried beans, but the one where you pack up a rental car, head into the unknown, no map, just instinct. He loved a good cup of coffee, a stiff drink, something with pride in it. He appreciated quality—he liked the kind of bar where the jukebox still worked and the drinks burned like truth. In all that, we clicked.
People used to think we were brothers. Not father and son. Brothers. We’d laugh, flirt with waitresses, talk trash, stumble into cheap bars in Long Beach or Denver, drink like we had something to forget, and laugh like we were trying to outrun it. That was our relationship—two men faking a family bond with road trips and hangovers, doing things he never did with his other kids. I guess I should be grateful for that. And I am. I think.
But gratitude’s a weird thing. It always comes with a side of bitterness.
Because the truth is, he was never very fatherly. Not to me. Not really to his other kids, either. The difference is they still tried. They still orbit him like lost planets, even if the gravity’s all wrong. Me? I see the pull, but I also see the anchor—his wife. She’s the common denominator. She’s the reason holidays became awkward, the reason the house always felt cold, the reason we all kept packing up and leaving instead of staying and building something.
I remember Montana—wild Khalifa, fly rods, laughter so raw it shook the trees. I remember setting up camp, watching the fire glow like hope on a dark night. I remember breaking rules in secret bathrooms at dive bars, puking at beer festivals while he laughed his ass off. Those were our moments. Moments he never gave to the others.
So yeah, I’m thankful for that. But the more I think about it, the more I realize I’ve been walking through a house of mirrors. I thought I’d resolved the mother issues. Hawaii was supposed to be my redemption. But I found myself haunted by new ghosts. I thought Sedona had healed the wounds left by my children’s mother. Maybe it did. But then I woke up and realized—hell, I’ve got daddy issues too. And just like that, the whole story rewrites itself again.
You see, the villains in our lives—they’re not always the loud ones. Sometimes they’re the ones in the background. The ones who subsidized the chaos. Who didn’t stop it. Who watched you drown and said nothing. The ones who lurk in the shadows of your upbringing, pretending like they did their best, like they weren’t part of the whole goddamn mess.
Am I thankful he pulled me out of an abusive home? Yes. Do I forgive him for kicking me out later to protect his marriage? No. He didn’t even wake me up—just left. Am I grateful that after I joined the military and started a life on my own, he casually drifted back in like nothing had happened? No. That shit burns, and the scar still itches.
What’s the point of it all? You don’t get to choose your blood. But you do get to choose who stays. And if someone—no matter who they are—causes you harm, adds weight instead of lifting it, you have every right to walk away. These roles—father, mother, family—they’re not sacred if they’re toxic. Blood isn’t thicker than peace. Family isn’t worth your sanity.
I don’t hate him. Or her. I don’t walk around with knives in my heart anymore. But the path they carved out for me—one with more holes than guidance—forced me to build myself from scraps. My siblings didn’t have to do that. They had something. I had… a map drawn in crayon and handed to me upside-down.
Forgiveness is fine. It’s the remembering that does the real work. You don’t forget. Because people don’t change unless they want to. And when someone chooses themselves over their child, when they put their comfort ahead of your survival, you owe them nothing. Not your loyalty. Not your attention. Not your love.
The unconditional love I got? That came from my stepfather, who earned the title of “dad” the hard way. From my grandparents, who never bailed. Never flinched. They were the safety net under my high-wire life. The rest?
Just organic matter.
