He was my adoptive father,
but he never made me feel like anything other than his.
An old school Italian man…
prideful, strong,
carrying more than he ever spoke about.
When my world felt uncertain,
he was the one who stayed.
Despite failing health,
despite stroke after stroke,
he showed up for me in the ways he could.
We watched shows together after school.
Cheered on the Chicago Bulls in ‘94
with a cardboard cutout of Michael Jordan in the window.
He made sure I felt special on Valentine’s Day.
And even though his birthday came right after mine,
he always let me keep the spotlight.
And if you were from my hometown,
you knew him.
He drove that baby yellow ‘96 Cadillac DeVille
through those streets until he could barely walk anymore.
You didn’t have to see him first…
you saw the car,
and you knew exactly who was coming.
That was him.
Proud. Present. Unforgettable.
He taught me how to laugh.
He taught me resilience…
not through words,
but through the way he kept going
when life gave him every reason not to.
And he taught me how to stand up for myself…
with pride.
That strength, that fire…
I carry it with me every day.
Honestly, my prideful little sass?
That’s him too.
Through and through.
When I was 12,
his body could no longer keep up with his spirit.
He had to move into a nursing home.
For a long time, I carried guilt for that.
But I know now…
I was just a child.
Loving him was never the same as being responsible for saving him.
Even in my darkest years,
when I lost myself in addiction and chaos,
I still showed up for him.
And every time I walked into that room,
his face would light up.
I’d sit with him,
comb his hair,
watch shows…
just like we used to.
The doctors once gave him six months.
He gave them five more years.
That kind of strength doesn’t leave a person.
It lives on.
I see it now in the way I fight for my own healing.
In the way I refuse to give up on myself.
In the way I’ve learned to stand again.
He was a hardened man with a painful past,
but he loved me in a way that left a permanent imprint on my soul.
And I carry that with me…
every single day.
15 years later, I still miss him.
But I no longer carry only the grief.
I carry his strength.
His resilience.
His love.
And I know, somewhere,
he’s watching the woman I’m becoming…
steady, sober, still rising…
and he’s proud.
Forever my father.
Forever in my heart.
Salvatore Hugo
11/9/1933 – 2/20/2011
— Ivy Rowan 
