Canada Day with My Kids, a Knock from the Police, and the Weight of the Past

Canada Day with My Kids, a Knock from the Police, and the Weight of the Past

So much has happened in the last month that it’s hard to know where to start. For the first time in a long time, I’m technically not homeless anymore. I have a room — four walls and a roof — at a Christian Discipleship home for sober living. It’s not glamorous, and it’s far from easy, but it’s mine. After drifting, crashing, and clawing my way through survival mode, just having a door that closes feels like a small miracle.

I moved in at the beginning of June, and honestly, it’s been a massive adjustment. Structure, curfews, new people, chores — and all while trying to hold onto my sobriety, my sanity, and whatever scraps of dignity I’ve got left. But the hardest part of this new chapter? It's not the rules or the routine. It's the constant emotional landmines — especially anything involving my ex-wife.

She still has the power to send me spiraling with a single phone call. It’s like she holds all the cards, all the time. Everything is on her schedule, her terms, her emotions. I try to stand my ground, to draw boundaries, but when you’re the one who’s fallen, nobody seems to care about your lines. I try to be decent. I try to be fair. But respect? That’s not a two-way street in this situation. She talks to me like I’m still the man I was at my worst — like I’m not allowed to grow, to change, or to heal.

Canada Day was a rare gift — I had all four of my kids with me. That doesn’t happen often. Those moments are like lightning in a bottle — precious and gone too fast. I didn’t post pictures. I want to protect their privacy, and honestly, I’m protecting my own heart too. When I look at them, I feel like I’ve already missed too much.

Meanwhile, I’m still on Ontario Works. Still applying for jobs. Still getting ghosted or told I’m “not quite the right fit.” And that familiar ache of feeling useless, unwanted, or broken creeps in every time another door slams shut. I hate this version of myself — the one scraping by on government support, the one asking for help, the one still rebuilding.

Then, just when I thought I had a moment to breathe, life sucker-punched me again.

I was cooking breakfast when I heard the knock. Two police officers at the front door. My stomach dropped. Even though I hadn’t done anything, I’ve learned not to trust that feeling. I still carry the trauma of Florida — the way being in the wrong place at the wrong time can change your entire life. But this wasn’t about me.

They came to tell me my mother died.

Early July. Alone in her apartment. No fanfare. No goodbye. Just gone.

They couldn’t reach my brother or my stepfather. My uncle cut me off years ago. Disowned me, really. And now they’re asking if I want to claim her body.

I don’t even know what to feel.

Grief? Guilt? Indifference? I’m numb and angry all at once. My mother and I — we had a complicated relationship. She made choices that pushed people away. So did I. Maybe we weren’t so different in the end. Maybe that’s the hardest part.

The coroner’s office called late last night. No pressure, they said. Just a decision. Do I want to take responsibility? Do I want to bury her? Do I want to carry that weight — emotionally, financially, spiritually?

I don’t have the answer yet.

What I do know is that my ex laughed when I told her about the police visit. Thought it was funny that I was anxious. Like trauma’s a joke. Like I should be immune to fear by now. Then, like clockwork, she asked if I was coming into any money. No compassion. No pause. Just the same old transactional mindset.

And all I could think about was how my mother died alone. Forgotten. And how maybe I’m not that far from the same fate if I don’t keep fighting.

I’ve made my share of bad choices — some of them flat-out stupid. But I’m trying now. I’m doing the work. I’m getting up every morning, sober, showing up to life even when it’s cold and cruel and unwelcoming. I’m trying to be a better man, a better father, a better version of the mess I used to be.

But some days? Some days the world makes that feel impossible.

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“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18 (NIV)

That verse hits different right now. Because even when the world feels cold, even when the people I once trusted are gone or indifferent, even when I’m carrying the weight of bad decisions and unanswered questions — God hasn’t gone anywhere. I may not feel Him every moment, but I believe He’s near. Close enough to catch the tears no one else sees. Close enough to hold me up when I can’t do it on my own.