Whether I liked it or not, I was replacing my dad—taking on his projects, walking in his footsteps, and trying to figure out where his life ended and mine began. It wasn’t an easy decision. I already had a full life in Toronto.
I have my wife, two kids, and a house near the corner of Eglinton and Glenholme. Leaving all that behind wasn’t simple. But when I got the call that my father was dying, my wife helped me pack, and I was on a plane to Quito that same day.
After two long, sleepless flights, I arrived in a different world. Quito is high in the Andes, about three kilometers above sea level. The air is thin, and where my father’s house sits—halfway up a mountain—the weather changes constantly, from clear skies to heavy rain in minutes.
Returning to that house brought back a lot of memories. Mostly about him. It felt strange to be there without him. Suddenly, I was the one responsible for everything he’d left behind.
His neighbours, who had been helping him, handed me bills and a list of things that needed to be done: hospital costs, house repairs, and maintenance for a property I barely knew how to manage. It felt like I had stepped right into his unfinished life.
My father grew up in Quito, in a small Spanish-tiled house with his mother and three older siblings. After he retired, he started spending more time there. He fixed up his mother’s old home and added a newer section next to it. It wasn’t perfect, but he was proud of it.
Quito itself had changed. People told me not to go out after dark because of street crime. But my father never cared about that. This was his home.
After he died, everything became paperwork—his funeral, registering his death, closing his bank accounts. Each step felt like removing another piece of him from the city. The final part was signing the papers to take his name off the house and replace it with mine. I told myself it was just a formality, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like I was taking his place.
I asked my wife for more time to sort everything out. She agreed, but I had to get back home. She needed me, and so did the kids.
I flew back to Toronto on November 2—Day of the Dead, and my birthday. It seemed appropriate. I came home carrying part of my father’s life with me, even if I didn’t plan to.
