The unexpected losses of my dad and stepdad taught me a lesson on loving my son

They found my father's personify below his Calgary Stampede card, partly prevarication in the bathtub. 

Always paranoid that someone was trying to get him, my father had barricaded his doors, forcing his landlord to break in through the window.

I had seen my biological father only twice in almost two decades, including one awkward meeting at an A&W restaurant when my son was five. 

Standing in his home after his death, surrounded by his possessions, I was struck by how much and how little I knew him.

When my sister and I flew to Alberta to sort through his belongings, his house still smelled like him — that mixture of diesel, beer, and sweet musk I remembered from childhood. While empty beer cans could be found scattered around the house, an unopened can sat on his coffee table, waiting for a return that never came.

I was surprised to see a yellow legal pad taped to his wall listed every grandchild's name and birthday in his unmistakable capital letters.

"Look at this," I called to my sister, pointing to a picture of my son printed from Facebook.

"He was keeping track of us."

His desk revealed a gradual decline; handwriting that deteriorated from clear script to shaky scrawls. Rescheduled medical appointments he'd never attended were meticulously recorded. 

My sister took the call from the medical examiner, who told her our dad stopped breathing, and the likely cause of death was liver failure.

My stepfather Bob entered my life when I was four and brought an entirely different approach to fatherhood. Calling me "Princess" and reminding me to "remember who you are" whenever I left the house, Bob showed up for me every day. 

Early mornings in our house trailer meant Céline Dion playing through wood-panelled walls while Bob and I sat together before everyone else woke up.

For my 13th birthday, Bob gave me a card with a hand-drawn smiley face. The message inside faded from memory, but to me, the card itself was evidence that I belonged to someone who cared. During tough times, I'd often look at that card as a reminder that Bob had loved me unconditionally.

"I love you," Bob called out the last time I saw him conscious in the hospital. I was 19. Simple words I rarely heard from my biological father.

I tell my son, now 13, I love him often, especially when he goes to see his father. We share custody, meeting halfway between our cities for exchanges.

During these handoffs, I think about that card and other keepsakes that have since been left behind. I wished I had one of these tangible reminders of belonging to give him for the time he's away, connecting him to my father and stepfather. 

"Which grandfather am I most like?" my son sometimes asks, curious about these men he'll never know.

I study his face, seeing echoes of both men. "You have qualities from both," I tell him. "And parts that are entirely yours."

I explain that inheritance isn't destiny; we can acknowledge where we come from while deliberately choosing a different path.

My son rolls his eyes when I play Céline Dion, a musical inheritance he'd happily disown.

But Bob's other legacies — like showing up consistently and other small daily rituals of connection — I've preserved and passed along, even though they never met. I hope he feels my love for him. I like to think that I parent with Bob's ghost beside me, his lessons flowing through my approach.

As parents, we all leave these clues. Some speak it aloud like Bob's final" I love you."

Others track birthdays on yellow legal pads, yet never pick up the phone. I think about these clues as I watch my son navigate his relationship with his father and as I try to fill grandfather-shaped gaps with stories about them.

I hope the clues I leave — both tangible and through words and actions — are clear enough that my son never questions whether he was loved. If he becomes a father someday, I want him to take the best from each man who shaped me, forging these qualities into something stronger than either managed alone.

Most of all, I want him to leave clearer clues about his love; direct words and actions that leave no room for doubt, requiring no archeological excavation of meaning after he's gone.

Do you have a compelling personal story that can bring understanding or help others? We want to hear from you. Send your story to ottawafirstperson@cbc.ca.

Freelance contributor

Kimberley Falk is an Alberta-born writer and communications specialist who lives with her son, partner and pets in Lyndhurst, Ont.

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