The morning that I found out that Dad had passed away, I drove over to his house. I knew the process of sorting through his possessions could not wait at all, it had to be done that day.

One of Dad’s neighbours, Jackie, had called to let me know that Dad had passed and that his house had already been robbed. She was distraught. Wailing over the phone, coughing the details out between cascades of sobs. Poor lady, they were so close and now she was stuck living there on her own. She was probably the closest friend that my dad ever had. They would spend hours at each other's house everyday drinking coffee and making art together. Dad of course was her dealer.

Despite everything that happened, I loved my father and still do. To this day my biggest regret is not connecting with him more. I do not forgive him for what he put my brother and me through, but I regret not trying to get to know him on a deeper level, particularly as an adult. When I talk about my childhood, people always say something along the lines of:

“But you were just a child and he was the adult. He should have done more; it was his fault that your relationship fell apart.”

Yes, he was the adult and I was the child. But that truth does not change my role and my actions towards him. I still made the choice to limit contact. I still made the choice to become emotionally distant. I still made the choice to stop seeing him altogether for years. Despite all that he was and all that he did, I still played a role in our relationship, or lack thereof.