I love my dad. That’s the truth I always come back to, even when it’s tangled, even when it’s messy, even when it refuses to fit neatly into anyone else’s definition of what love should be. My love for him isn’t clean or easy—it has edges, contradictions, and a history that doesn’t always feel comfortable to sit with. But it’s real, and it’s mine.

He has given me moments that still glow when I pull them from memory. Some of my earliest and warmest memories live in those moments—times where it was just him and me, where the rest of the world faded into the background. My dad is smart in ways that are unexpected, the kind of smart that can catch you off guard. He’s quick with a joke when he wants to be, able to turn a quiet moment into laughter with nothing more than a sly comment or a ridiculous observation. He’s always had this way of making ordinary days feel like they have the potential to turn into something memorable, even if we didn’t set out with a plan.

When I was young, there were days where he’d decide, without warning, that we were going to a Cubs game. No big buildup, no weeks of anticipation—just a sudden, “Let’s go.” We’d end up in the bleachers, the summer sun beating down on our shoulders, a pop on the floor, a bag of peanuts between us to share, a Chicago Style hot dog in each of our hands, and the smell of grilled onions hanging in the air. He’d point out the players, giving me little bits of trivia or explaining the game, always making me feel like I was in on some secret. I don’t remember the scores or the stats from those games, but I remember the feeling—being there with him, surrounded by the energy of the crowd, sharing a moment that belonged only to us.

Other days, he’d take me to the bookstore. My dad has never liked reading—he never pretended otherwise—but he knew I loved it. So he’d walk with me through the aisles, letting me browse as long as I wanted. Sometimes I’d glance over and see him picking up a book, flipping it open. Every so often, he’d buy me something without me even asking, as if to say, I don’t get this world you love so much, but I get you. Those trips weren’t about the books as much as they were about him showing up in my world and letting me know I mattered.

And then there were the Sunday drives. Just the two of us, no agenda, no map—sometimes even no destination. We’d roll the windows down, let the music fill the car, and wander through neighborhoods we’d never seen before. The hum of the tires on the road, the occasional pointing out of a strange-looking house or an interesting street—it was quiet and unhurried, a kind of togetherness that didn’t need constant conversation.

Some days, we’d take the train into Chicago. We’d walk for miles through the city, stopping wherever curiosity pulled us. We’d grab lunch in small diners or tucked-away restaurants, wander through shops, sit on benches and watch people go by. My dad is one of the reasons I became such a foodie. He never made trying new restaurants a big event—it was just what we did. We’d order something unfamiliar and see what happened. Eating together was never just about the food—it was about the story, the shared experience of discovering something new.

He also had a way of creating little worlds within our world. He’d give people nicknames—strange, funny, often absurd names—that would stick for years. These became part of our private language, the kind of inside jokes that could make us laugh decades later. Even now, we can say one of those names and it pulls us right back into that shared space, no explanation needed.

But alongside all of that—the warmth, the laughter, the adventures—there’s another truth that’s harder to carry. My dad has always had a layer of instability woven into who he is. I’ve seen it in impulsive decisions that left damage in their wake, in the pull of gambling and alcohol, in the reality of him being in and out of prison. I’ve lived with the uncertainty of never knowing which version of him I’d get—the lighthearted one who’d turn a grocery store trip into a fun outing, or the restless one whose choices left chaos behind.

Even as a child, I learned to watch him closely, to read the temperature of the room before stepping into it. I learned to anticipate the turn in the tide before it came. I became the one who paid attention, the one who adjusted, the one who tried to keep things steady. In a way, I was parenting him before I even knew what that meant. That role followed me into adulthood—me checking on him, making sure he was okay, sometimes more than he made sure I was okay.

I know my dad has rubbed people the wrong way. I know he’s done things that were wrong, things that hurt people. I understand why some people only see that side of him. But I’m not going to stop loving him.

Loving him now means loving him with boundaries. It means choosing when and how we connect so I can protect my peace. It means I can hold on to the good—the Cubs games, the bookstores, the Sunday drives, the city walks, the nicknames—without ignoring the reality of the instability.

Some people live in black and white. To them, you’re either a good parent or a bad parent. You’re either worthy of complete devotion or complete disconnection. But I’ve learned to live in the gray. That’s where my relationship with my dad exists—not as a tidy narrative with a hero or a villain, but as something layered, contradictory, and deeply human.

I’ve let go of the fantasy version of him—the man who would always be steady, always safe, always sure. That man doesn’t exist. The man I have is flawed, sometimes unpredictable, but also the man who once woke up and decided to take me to a baseball game just because. He’s the man who wandered bookstores for my sake, who took me exploring without a plan, who taught me to see food as an adventure, who built a private language out of nicknames only we understand.

Love, I’ve learned, doesn’t have to erase the hurt to be true. It doesn’t have to deny the joy to be honest. It can hold both at once—the light and the dark, the warmth and the instability.

Mine lives in the gray.
It’s not perfect. It’s not simple. But it’s real.
And for me, that’s enough.

And if you’re reading this—if you have a parent who is both the source of some of your favorite memories and some of your deepest wounds—you might understand this space I’m talking about. You might know what it’s like to stand in that gray area, loving someone without letting them burn you down.

People will tell you it’s impossible. That you either keep them close or cut them out completely. That anything in between is weakness, indecision, denial. But here’s the truth they don’t always talk about: love is often messier than that. Relationships—especially with parents—rarely fit into clean boxes. You can hold onto the parts that made you while protecting yourself from the parts that could break you.

It doesn’t have to make sense to everyone else.
It doesn’t even have to make sense all the time to you.

Sometimes, it’s enough to say:
I see you for who you are. I accept the pieces you can give me. And I keep the rest of myself intact.