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When I was eight I moved in with my mom and her new husband. I didn’t know then that he would become my father. At that age all I saw was another man in the house who wasn’t my dad. At first I kept my distance. Then slowly he became part of my world.

His name was James, same as me. Between him, me, and his five kids it felt like chaos every time someone yelled “James.” The older ones were already grown and gone, leaving two teenage daughters in the house. Living with teenage girls was its own kind of combat zone.

James worked at a boat company and he made sure we never went without. He wasn’t flashy but he provided. My favorite memories were simple. Friday nights, popcorn cooked in a cast iron skillet, all of us crammed on that old floral sofa every family in the eighties seemed to own, brown carpet that looked like it had survived the disco era, and a green ashtray big enough to double as a birdbath sitting on the table. We’d watch movies and if Mike Tyson was fighting my dad’s trash talk was louder than the TV.

The moment that defined us came one afternoon while I was raking the yard with my sister. She asked me if it was okay to call him Dad. Without thinking I said “He isn’t my dad.” He heard me. He walked over, looked me in the eye, and said, “I may not be the father you want but I’m the father you need.”

At the time I rolled my eyes like only a kid can. Years later I finally understood.

He never spoiled me. If I wanted Nike Airs or Reebok Pumps I had to earn them. What he gave me were the things that mattered, lessons about work, respect, and what it really means to take care of people.

I never saw him cry until my mom died in February 2014. That day the strongest man I knew, the war veteran, the protector, the man who always had the answers, was suddenly lost. It broke me to see him that way but it also showed me something I hadn’t seen before, his heart.

Years later Hurricane Michael came barreling through. Like every storm before it we prepped for a hurricane party. But when the winds hit I saw fear in his face for the first time since my mom’s death. The house was brick and solid but the way those winds screamed like a freight train even he had doubts. Hours later when it finally passed the yard was nothing but uprooted giants, trees five feet thick ripped out like weeds. He looked at it all with the weight of a man who knew time was catching up.

As the years wore on he softened. His memory wasn’t as sharp but his heart was bigger than ever. And then suddenly he was gone. The night before he handed me a pack of cookies and said, “Here son you can have these. I don’t want them anymore.” Looking back both my parents’ last words to me were about food. That still makes me smile through the hurt.

Losing him shattered me. No more knocks on my door with some random plate of food he had cooked up. No more neighborhood walks where he flirted with every woman in sight. No more late night talks about life. All of that was gone.

But his passing gave me something too. A chance to reconnect with my brother and sister and realize I had always had family, I just hadn’t let myself see it.

I miss him. I hear his voice sometimes sneaking into my head when I least expect it. I remember a joke, a story, the smell of popcorn, or the way he leaned forward in his chair during a Tyson fight. He was a soldier, a provider, a mentor, and the father I needed.

So if you’re reading this, don’t take your people for granted. Keep them close, laugh with them, argue with them, sit on the couch with them. Because one day you’ll wish you had just one more conversation, and all you’ll have left are the memories.

Some fathers are given by blood, others by choice. Either way they leave their mark. Sour, sweet, unforgettable. Just like Expired Milk n Lies.