Every car ride sounded the same.
My dad and I would sing If I Had $1,000,000 by the Barenaked Ladies.
Sometimes we were driving to one of my sporting practices.
Sometimes we were just sitting outside in the backyard.
Every single time we got to the chorus, I’d laugh and tell him,
“One day I’m going to have a million dollars.”
He’d smile.
“I hope you’re right.”
Looking back now, I realize we weren’t singing about money.
We were singing about possibility.
At the time, I thought success meant becoming wealthy enough to retire my dad.
My dad and I spent our lives chasing two very different definitions of wealth.
He owned five pairs of Levi’s jeans and wore them until they literally didn’t fit anymore. If someone suggested buying another pair, he’d shrug and say, “Why would I buy something I don’t need? I’d rather save it for a new golf club”
Meanwhile, I dreamed big.
I dreamed about building businesses. I dreamed about financial freedom. I dreamed about a beautiful home where family would always feel welcome, a backyard with a pool full of kids and friends, and one day, the ability to give my own children opportunities I had never imagined for myself.
Most of all, I dreamed about retiring my dad.
I wanted to be the one to tell him that after decades of working as a mechanic for Frito-Lay, he never had to worry about another paycheck again.
I thought that would be the greatest gift I could ever give him.
I never got the chance.
For weeks after he passed away, I couldn’t stop thinking the same thing.
I failed him.
But grief has a funny way of peeling back the layers we spend years building around ourselves.
It has a way of asking questions success never does.
I was eighteen years old when I first realized there was a world much different than the one I grew up in.
It was my first college party at the University of Tampa.
The president of my sorority offered to drive a group of us home. As we walked toward her car, another girl leaned over and said, “Whatever you do, don’t throw up in her Porsche.”
I remember thinking...
“What’s a Porsh-a?”
I wasn’t joking.
Everyone laughed because they assumed I was.
Later that night, I asked my roommate what a Porsche was.
That moment didn’t make me jealous.
It made me curious.
I realized there were people who lived lives I had never even imagined.
From that day on, I became fascinated with how people built wealth and what types of careers their parents were in. Not because I wanted to impress anyone, but because I wanted freedom.
I wanted choices.
I wanted to build a life where money never made my biggest decisions.
Looking back now, I can see that while I was learning how to build wealth, my dad had quietly been teaching me something even more valuable.
My dad wasn’t the loudest person in the room.
He didn’t chase titles.
He didn’t care about keeping up with anyone else.
He loved simple Saturdays.
Golf.
Horseshoes.
Relaxing at home.
He believed nothing good happened after midnight.
If you came to our house, he’d greet you with one of his signature bear hugs before inviting you into the living room or out back by the pool.
Then he’d start asking questions.
Not because he was trying to make conversation.
Because he genuinely wanted to know you.
He remembered peoples stories.
He cared about your family.
He celebrated your wins.
He smiled often.
He stayed out of drama.
He was fiercely loyal.
Easy-going.
Patient.
And somehow, every person who spent time with him left feeling like they mattered.
Isn’t that what we’re all trying to build?
As my businesses grew, so did my dream.
I wanted to retire him because I knew what my parents had sacrificed to give my sister and me opportunities they never had.
They encouraged big dreams before they ever knew how those dreams would be paid for.
My dad never once told me my goals were unrealistic.
He simply believed in me.
Whenever we’d sing If I Had $1,000,000, I’d confidently tell him that one day I’d have it.
He never rolled his eyes.
He never told me to be practical.
He’d just smile and say,
“I hope you’re right.”
Today, I realize that may have been one of the greatest gifts he ever gave me.
He never made me feel foolish for dreaming bigger than the life we had.
The strange thing about grief is that it rearranges your priorities without asking permission.
After my dad died, I expected sadness.
I expected regret.
I expected to miss him.
I didn’t expect clarity.
I found myself replaying memories that had absolutely nothing to do with money.
I remembered the hugs.
The laughter.
The Saturdays.
The questions he asked my friends.
The smile on his face whenever his daughters walked through the door.
Not once did I think about how much money he made.
Not once did I think about what he owned.
Not once did I think about whether he had accomplished enough.
Instead, I realized something that no business book had ever taught me.
Character outlives achievement.
The wealthiest people aren’t always the richest.
And success means very little if, at the end of your life, no one wants to sit beside you.
My dad never sat me down to teach me those lessons.
He simply lived them.
I still believe in building wealth.
In fact, I’ll be honest, I always wanted to be rich.
But somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t chasing money because I wanted status.
I was chasing what money could create.
Freedom.
Choice.
Time.
The ability to help the people I love.
The chance to build a life that wasn’t controlled by financial limitations.
Today, I believe those dreams matter.
But I also believe something else.
If wealth costs you your peace...
If success costs you your relationships...
If achievement costs you your character...
You’ve paid too much.
If my dad could read this today, there is only one thing I’d want him to know.
I finally understand what you were trying to teach me.
Not through lectures.
Not through advice.
But through the way you lived.
You taught me that peace is worth protecting.
That loyalty is never old-fashioned.
That curiosity is more valuable than judgment.
That the people who truly love you don’t ask you to become someone else before they celebrate who you already are.
For years, I thought the greatest gift I could give you was retirement.
Now I wonder if the greatest gift you gave me was something much harder to measure.
You showed me what a rich life actually looked like.
I still wish I had gotten to retire you.
I always will.
But somewhere between five pairs of Levi’s, countless games of golf and horseshoes, backyard conversations, bear hugs, and a song about a million dollars, I realized something.
I spent years trying to build a life that would make my dad proud.
It wasn’t until after he was gone that I understood...
He already was.
And maybe that’s the kind of wealth that never runs out.
Wow. He’s smiling down on you, my friend. And so very proud of you. 🥹🙏🏻💕
Such a touching and meaningful article. Very inspirational ✨