My dad was born in Mérida
Chapter 17
a love letter to my daddy
There is so much to say about my dad.
He was born in Mérida, Yucatán. The firstborn of the MC clan. My grandmother was only 14. My grandfather was 31. I know. I know. Back then it was considered “common”—but I am not the one to judge. That is not my place.
What I know is that my father was, until my grandparents died, the best son a parent could ask for.
He bought them a house. He gave them a monthly allowance. He made sure they were cared for until the very end. He never forgot where he came from.
The Road Trips
Every year, without fail, we would travel from Mexico City to Mérida. My dad loved to drive. And he was great at it.
I remember the drill. The timing. The competition.
Once, we made it from our house to my aunt’s in Campeche in just 13 hours. I was the one timing us. I would get mad if my brothers took too long during gas or washroom breaks. I was serious about beating our records.
Those road trips were sacred. My dad at the wheel, the road ahead, the family packed in the car. The smell of coffee and gas stations and the warm Yucatán air as we got closer.
He was our captain. And we followed him.
The Best Man
Now my father is being taken care of by my oldest brother. The best man who came from a great one.
I will not be able to see him again. Not in this life.
That is a hard sentence to write. But it is true.
I am his favorite. His only daughter. The one who at three years old used to jump on his back to give him massages with cotton balls dipped in water because I did not like him having any pain.
I could not stand the thought of him hurting. Even then. Even at three. Even with no words for it.
I just knew: my father must not hurt. I will fix it. I will help.
The Legacy
He gave me so much. Not money. Not things. He gave me something better.
He gave me the example of a man who took care of his parents. Who drove across the country for family. Who worked hard and loved harder.
He gave me the sense that family is not about convenience. It is about showing up. Again and again.
He gave me the belief that I could do anything—because I came from him.
The Missing
I will not see him again.
That is a fact I carry with me. It is heavy. But it is also light, because I know he is being cared for. I know he is loved. I know he knows I love him.
And I know that the little girl who massaged his back with cotton balls is still in me. She is still trying to take care of him. She is still trying to take care of everyone.
That little girl grew up. She survived. She built a life. She is building a movement.
But she still misses her dad.
A Note for Anyone Who Loves Their Father
If you have a father you love—write to him. Call him. Tell him.
Do not wait.
Even if he cannot respond. Even if he is far away. Even if he is gone.
Tell him.
Because love does not end. It just changes shape.
To My Dad.
Thank you for the road trips. For the timing. For the 13-hour drives and the cotton ball massages.
Thank you for teaching me what it means to show up.
I carry you with me. Always.
And I will keep building—just like you taught me.
With all my love, always,
Your favorite and only daughter,
Merida
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