I met my father for the first time when I was forty-two. It wasn’t an adoption situation. He left us when I was in diapers, and was never heard from again. My mom did such a great job raising us that he was largely a forgotten blip on our family radar.

Except for me.

I just couldn’t understand how a 35 year-old man, with a devoted wife and two sons, could simply leave. Disappear. Disconnect.

Oh, I had seen photos—a wedding picture, his Air Force shot, even one holding me as a baby. But poof. Gone. 1960 was the last time we saw or heard from him.

Life has its forks in the road, its tipping points, moments of truth, and even its lucky strikes of gold. In 2001, I had one such moment—a quiet conversation with a retired FBI Agent.

But, before we get to that moment, let me say this. Not having a father growing up was a big deal for me. Not for my older brother Bob—he didn’t care. Not for my mom—except for what she occasionally shared with me about her husband. For the most part, it was not complimentary. Mothers can wield a lot of influence and be very persuasive with their children—but that deep conversation is for another day.

We only remember the highlights in life, a flickering newsreel of memories. A Eulogy is not eighty-two years long. Not having a dad growing up bugged me. Father and son events, fishing and camping weekends, my hockey games. I envied my friends who had fathers. Especially cool fathers. Fun dads. I had none of this.

I remember when I was ten, a friend invited me to a curling arena to watch his father compete. Donny’s dad drove 85 MPH down the highway. We begged him to try for 100! There were no seat belts in those days. It was awesome! My mum never drove over 50.

So when this FBI guy took an unusual interest in my story—he became my lucky strike of synchronicity gold. I was an auto finance guy for years. While doing the paperwork for his new car purchase, I offhandedly mentioned my father, and the void I felt not knowing whether he was even alive. Years ago, my mother was convinced he was dead. I had casually looked for decades, but never a trace.

He stopped signing the paperwork, and offered help. He told me he had access to new databases, and might be able to find my father. Without enthusiasm or expectation, I retained him and wished him luck.

The very next morning he called me at work. He said he just got off the phone with my father. Just like that. A long-distance telephone call was arranged, and I soon spoke to my father for the first time.

After a number of conversations over several months, I bought a plane ticket to Clearwater, Florida. As was typical, my wife managed the homefront in Seattle and I set out on my 3,000-mile adventure.

When I strolled up to the front desk of the Assisted Living facility in Clearwater, the receptionist stopped what she was doing and declared, “Oh my, I know who you are. You’re Fred Meakin’s son, aren’t you?”

I looked just like him, including the glasses and goatee. She couldn’t get over it.

Fred sat in a wheelchair in his room, very sharp and conversational, yet very eighty. He had a distinctly charming British accent. I totally knew he was my father, and surprisingly, I felt a familiarity as I looked into his eyes—a connection. I immediately felt like I was his son, and spoke to him as a son would, not as a stranger.

Together, we poured over two thick photo albums of his life, a surreal experience. My father had kept a detailed photo journal that included handwritten descriptions of each picture and the names of everyone in them. The old Brownie camera he used still held a place on a shelf in his room. Together, these two albums contained hundreds of years of my family’s British history.

Grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins galore. Jaw-dropping WWI and WWII photos, and countless ones of his later life in America. I was blown away to see photos of a historical Bed and Breakfast he once owned. I couldn’t believe the trove of visual treasures.

Yet now, here Fred was—totally alone in an old folks' home with just one friend: a paid caregiver.

Curiously missing from these albums were five years, from 1955 to 1960, which would have chronicled his marriage in Montreal and the births of his two sons. Not one photo existed. I didn’t even ask why.

The elephant in the room was the abandonment of his family four decades earlier. When I asked him about it, he claimed he tried to find us years ago, but didn’t know where we were. I reminded him we were in the same apartment where we lived when he left! I discovered that he was indeed the “escapist-bullshitter” that he was once labeled.

I got close and looked earnestly into my dad’s eyes. It was one of those moments where things unfold clearly in your heart and mind, and words flow smoothly.

“I want to thank you. If you had not done what you did, I would not be the father I am today.”

He didn’t seem to know what to make of my remark, but I think he did.

The closure I felt leaving the facility and heading to the airport was exhilarating. I felt cleansed, like I had gotten a lifelong monkey off my back, or checked a big box off my bucket list.

Rather than brooding or ruminating, I was happy to discover that I had scores of living relatives in England and Australia. Thanks to social media, I have stayed in touch with many of them.

Boarding the plane, I experienced an unexpected connection to my estranged father and a sense that this was the beginning of a new chapter of my life.

Fred Meakin died within a few months of my visit, a confirmation in my heart that I had done the right thing to connect with him after so many years.

Two significant events happened after my father’s death—events that I never expected but that changed the course of my life.

First, my father’s priceless family photo albums were lost and never found. The assisted living center had apparently thrown them out, or lost them somehow. I was so distraught I hired a private investigator in Florida, who conducted interviews and a search of the facility—all to no avail. I still feel the void of not having those albums in my hands today—and yes, only a fleeting highlight reel in my head.

Sometimes we fail to treasure what is right before us—until it's not. This was a painful lesson, and one I carry with me to this moment.

Second, a few months after my dad’s death, I received a subtly urgent phone call from his past caregiver. Then and now, I believe she was an angel establishing a connection. No question.

At the time, I was in the process of losing a business with millions of dollars on the line. It’s a long and brutal story. As a high-risk entrepreneur, I was truly at my end. I had a wife and three teenage boys. I was out of money. I was losing everything, including my family home. I had no idea how I would survive the coming months.

I had always been an ambitious and successful businessman, but for the very first time in my life, I had no way out. Absolutely no way out.

In what was a surreal phone call, I was told that my father had an estate. It was the last thing I would have believed, based on everything I had seen and heard about him. He had been a deeply secretive man. As it turned out, he had managed his money well and had cash and pensions that supported him comfortably through the years.

I was also surprised to hear that he had no Will and Testament, and as the caregiver whispered to me, the State of Florida was close to “absorbing” his estate due to having no documented heirs.

Despite the estrangement and decades gone by, my brother and I soon became the only heirs to his estate, and I was named Executor. You just can’t make this stuff up.

My father was not a rich man, but he left a “secret estate” that ended up financially saving me, allowing me to support my family through the most difficult year of my life. I almost died that year. There was no way I could have made it without this angelic injection of money. I like to call it my Miracle Bridge Funding.

At 66, I am now in my “Twilight-ish” years, and as I have published and broadcast countless times, I feel a renewed responsibility and duty to our younger generations. Our Gen-Zs and Alphas desperately need fatherhood, mentorship, and teaching. And yes, sometimes they just need simple encouragement—“Atta-Boys!”

I believe it is important to be a connector. A single connection can change a life. It is also important to be a conductor—to pass along and forward our knowledge, our wisdom, or just stories like this one to our younger generations.

Because sometimes, treasures are forever lost.