I have a vivid memory of my father’s drinking…one of those crystal-clear snapshots from early childhood that stays tucked just beneath the surface.

Before the storms, before I understood what dysfunction was, I remember the beauty of my dad’s soul. He was kind. Gentle. Especially with me. When he drank, things got harder. He and my mom fought, though they tried to keep it out of sight. But kids always feel what isn’t said.

Recently, in the slow and painful process of self-discovery, I revisited a moment I’d long buried. I was four. They were screaming in the kitchen. It was one of those fights you don’t forget, even when you don’t yet understand the words. My dad’s drink of choice was Macallan single malt, aged at least twenty years. He had expensive taste, even in his sorrow.

That night, I later learned, he had found out about her affair…someone from their office. The accountant. He left. I remember sitting there, heart cracked open in a way only a child’s can be, thinking he was never coming back.

But he did. And not with fury. He came back holding two drinks from McDonald’s – one for me, and one for him. A moment of strange solidarity. Chaos all around us, and yet he found a way to connect, to comfort. Without a word, I knew what it meant: I’m still your dad. I’m still here.

And just like that, he forgave her.

He stopped drinking after that. As if love, even when broken and bruised, was reason enough to try again. It didn’t heal him, nothing ever really did, but it was a testament to the kind of man he was. Damaged, yes. But deeply loyal. Tender. Complex.

It was around then that I started really paying attention.

I was a hyper-observant child, always watching, collecting moments like puzzle pieces. Even if I didn’t know what they meant yet. Like the makeup on his side of the sink. My mom was pale, barely a hint of color to her cheeks. My dad, on the other hand, was golden, always outdoors in his short, hot pink shorts, his legs shaved smooth, his tan lines sharp and proud. He shimmered, radiant in a way most men never dared to be. The makeup by his sink matching his skin tone, and not hers.

Looking back, I realize I was raised in a house where secrets weren’t exactly hidden. They were just… dressed up in plain sight.