The water started leaking into our house in January 2021. At first it was only when the ice thawed and then it was also during the summer rains.

I called the builder who called a roofer, and then a more experienced roofer, and eventually an engineer. The experts didn't know what to do. Nor did I.

There wasn't room in my mind or heart for the roof because it was also the year I learned my father was dying.

My father's final home was thousands of kilometres away. He had retired to rural France with my stepmother, whom I had called Mum since I was six.

Their house was a bookend — the final house on a narrow lane in a hamlet of a dozen souls. In that final year of his life, my father didn't even remember he was living in France.

One day, Mum called me, highly anxious. My father's Parkinson's had advanced rapidly and he had become completely disoriented. He had set out that morning, walking into the blazing sun, eager to get to the rapid transit station — the LRT. The LRT train would take him to the University of Alberta, he claimed.

"Where do you think you'll find a train?" Mum asked. "This isn't Edmonton. This isn't our old neighbourhood."

My father's old life in Edmonton was like a pair of well-worn slippers that he had misplaced, and yet I felt the complete opposite.

I had lived in the city from 1989 to 2007, and then spent 13 years in Montreal, during which time I married and had a daughter.

We headed back west during the most depressing months of the pandemic. As my wife settled into her new job, I spent long days with my daughter, wandering around from playground to playground, into the river valley or for out-of-town excursions, trying to find amusements. Whatever we did, my pleasure was muted. Everywhere, my father's absence haunted me.

The roof haunted me, too. Our house — the first we had ever purchased anywhere — had a fatal flaw. At night, I dreamed that inside the walls, behind the drywall, there were gushing rivers.

Sometimes, when I woke up, the dream had come true. There would be water dripping from the ceiling. Water in rivulets down the staircase.

I set buckets on the floor and draped layers of towels over the stairs to protect the carpet and I wrapped the couch in plastic.

Someone once told me, "When you lose a parent, it's like the roof of your house is gone."

My father died 11 months after I moved back to Edmonton. I travelled to France for the funeral, and everywhere I went, I felt fully exposed to all weather.

One of my tasks was finding the right spot for my father's final resting place. My father's ashes would be moved into an urn and then placed in an eight-sided columbarium in the cemetery of a small French village called Prissac.

I chose a spot for his urn that would allow me to sit on the adjacent bench, read his name engraved on the marble, and then lift my eyes to the nearest oak tree.

It was difficult having to leave that cemetery, especially knowing how much time might pass before I could return.

Two events eventually made me feel better.

My wife and I had our second daughter a year later. She was born in the Royal Alexandra Hospital in Edmonton. My wife and I ate cake from the neighbouring Polish bakery for days afterwards. It was my first experience of Edmonton joy since moving back.

Then our insurance claim for the roof was approved. Ten months later, the work began.

When I asked the builder what exactly the problem with the roof had been, he laughed.

"There's no single problem," he said. "It's a long list of problems."

I could relate. When you're broken, everything is broken.

This year, the roof was fixed. I finally felt I could hold onto the idea of Edmonton as my home for years to come. It would be the city where my wife and I would live, work, raise our daughters, and be happy, even if my father was no longer around to see it. We would live the life he would have wanted for us.