15 Years Without My Dad

Fifteen years ago today, my dad died.And today—of all days—I finished Out. Again., a book about how coming out never really ends.

There’s a cruel poetry in that.

My father was 5’5", Sicilian through and through—about 165 pounds of muscle, mischief, and mule-level stubbornness. The kind of man who could fix a carburetor before breakfast and still make it to church in a pressed suit by ten. He looked like he belonged in the mob, but his weapon of choice was a triaxle dump truck with a Public Works logo on the door. Blue-collar to his core. Republican to the bone. NRA member. Deer hunter. Coffee black, opinions strong.

And still—he was my biggest ally.

When I came out, he didn’t make a speech or ask a single question. He just shrugged, nodded once, and said, “You hungry?” That was his version of I love you no matter what. No rainbow flag. No long talk about acceptance. Just unconditional love, served with leftovers and that quiet, unshakable loyalty that men like him rarely put into words.

He walked through life with that same no-nonsense pride you can see in that church photo—head up, jaw set, eyes saying, I built my life with these hands, and I’ll protect what’s mine. He didn’t talk feelings; he showed them. He’d swing by my house midday to walk the dogs, leave a sandwich in the fridge, or take out the trash just because it needed doing. He once sat on the porch with Logan, both of them drinking bourbon and smoking cigars like old friends, and I remember thinking: this is what acceptance actually looks like.

So yeah, finishing a book about the exhausting repetition of coming out—on the anniversary of losing the one man who never made me explain myself—hits hard. Feels cosmic, even. Like the universe staged this full-circle moment just to remind me that love doesn’t always look the way the world expects it to.

He was a dump-truck-driving Sicilian who loved his gay son out loud, even if he never said the words.

Here’s to him. The man who proved that acceptance doesn’t need a speech—it just needs heart, work boots, and a kitchen table big enough for whoever you are.

Fifteen years later, I still carry him with me — in the small things, the big lessons, and the deep, steady love that never left. ❤️