Why we moved to Costa Rica, Part 5: The alcoholic parent.

Anyone who knows me from my hometown probably remembers my dad, Toby - the goofy, charismatic, sometimes angry town drunk, who cruised around town on his bicycle because he'd had his license revoked after one too many DUIs.

We couldn't afford rent, so he worked as a handyman for our landlord, zipping around town with his toolbelt and a few Budweisers. In exchange, we lived in a tiny studio on the second floor of a house that had been split into apartments. Dad gave me the bedroom, and each night he rolled out two sleeping bags, stacking one atop the other, as his mattress on the living room floor. The first two years living together I would lie down next to him on the floor each night, falling asleep in the warmth of his safety instead of a bed.

He'd had a traumatic childhood too, and then he lost his brother when they were teens. A drunk off-duty police officer hit and killed him as he and my dad walked together. My dad held him in his arms as he died - it was Christmas Eve.

He never intended on being parent, let alone a single father, but anyone who knew him would tell you how deeply proud he was to be my dad. The absolute ineptitude of someone like him, a roughneck roofer with a missing front tooth and too many vices, raising a little girl on his own was almost sitcom worthy.

Some afternoons he'd bring me along with him to the local bar, buy me a Shirley Temple, and give me a roll of coins for pinball, or teach me how to shoot pool. Some Saturday nights he'd shake me awake, "Nikki, wake up. Booker T is on!" He didn't want to watch the prime WWE fight of the week without me. He was my best friend, and in many ways he needed me as much as I needed him.

He was funny, he was charming, he was rough around the edges and everywhere in between, and he made friends anywhere he went. But he had his demons. And the alcohol was starting to take control of him.

To be continued in Part 6.