I was trying to think about the first time I met my godfather, but that would be like asking me to remember the first time I met my mother. From the time my brain was able to hold memories, my Uncle Ronnie was there.

He had been my mother’s best friend since she was in college (maybe even longer — I was never clear on their exact origin story) and was an unwavering pillar in the tribe that raised me in the absence of my biological father. As a child I didn’t understand the depths of what I was witnessing between him and my mother, but now, at 34, with my own best friends whom I’ve known since college, I have a deep appreciation for how special their bond was. How healing it was. They weren’t just besties: They were siblings. My mom asking Ronnie to don the title of my godfather was truly just a formality. I belonged to him before we ever met.

In second grade, I had to do a family tree project. My classmates and I were each handed an illustration of a big tree that had labels for us to fill in. At the bottom of the tree was a space for me to write my name and above it were two spaces — one for my mother and one for my father — and then above those were spaces for my maternal and paternal grandparents. Our assignment was to work with our parents to fill in the names on the tree and write a mini report. My 7-year-old brain stared at the paper with confusion. I didn’t know my father’s name. I’d never really thought much about having a dad.

When I got home, all four feet of me cornered my statuesque Caribbean mother in the kitchen of our Queens home and asked, “Do I have a father?” She looked at me, a bit stunned, and took a breath before she said, “Of course you do.” In my high-pitched voice, I shot back, “Then where is he?”

She looked at me for a moment as though searching for the answer. “Your father lives with his family.” It was a concept too big for me to fully understand. “Aren’t we his family?” I asked. Before my mother could respond, I asked the question that I think every single parent dreads: “Does he not love me?”

My mother crouched in front of me, took my small hands into hers. “Your father is a good man,” she said. I softened a bit, and she continued: “I loved him because he was such a good man. He was so smart, talented and charming. Everybody loved him. And you remind me of him.”

Somehow, hearing I was like him was enough. For the moment. But periodically his absence would feel unbearable.

Father’s Day, parent-teacher conferences and school sporting events were always the hardest. As a child of the ’90s, I clung to Carl Winslow from “Family Matters,” fantasizing about having a man in my house who would impart words of wisdom, dish out compassionate discipline and look at me with pride. There was a very “blood is thicker than water” energy about my yearning — a notion that my biological father and I would have an inexplicable bond that would heal all my wounds. He would be a compass that would point my life in the right direction and guide me effortlessly into Black manhood.

But no matter how hard I prayed to God or how many letters I wrote to Santa at Christmas, my father never appeared. Uncle Ronnie, however, always did. He had golden brown skin, and though his marathon runner’s body rendered him smaller than most of the men I was related to, he was strong. He was innately kind but could read you for filth with just a look, and, like me, he loved to laugh.

Not only did he attend school plays, piano recitals, basketball games, track meets, even church once or twice, but he was also the one who would drive me to and from those events. Whenever I copped an attitude, he knew how to put a smile on my face. He would scoop me up and take me to museums or the playground or the flea market, teaching me how to pick out quality art and furniture pieces.

He would take me to bougie restaurants in Manhattan so that I’d be exposed to different cuisines and fine dining; he’d take me to McDonald’s because he knew, ultimately, that it was my favorite. And if those things didn’t have me beaming, he resorted to my most hated tactic: becoming an insatiable tickle monster, stopping only when there were tears of laughter streaming down my face.

He was also the only person that never questioned my effeminate nature. Others would demand that I “man up” and not be so “girly” in my demeanor or interests. Uncle Ronnie, however, owned a hair salon and was the only man I knew who used words like “fabulous” and “honey.” He never tried to stomp out my innate softness; instead, he quietly nurtured it. He encouraged it by laughing at my impressions of Cher. He protected it by giving me my first summer job as a receptionist at the salon. He honored it by having my signed Destiny’s Child poster framed, saying that they were to me what the Supremes had been to him.

Shortly after I graduated from college at 21, my mother and Uncle Ronnie had a big falling out. I won’t share the private details of their discord, but I can tell you my mother came to me and plainly told me what happened. Uncle Ronnie did the same. Both had a different experience of the situation, and my Uncle Ronnie in particular expressed being hurt.

I had never known them to disagree on anything, let alone have a fight, so I wasn’t used to being in the middle. But based on my understanding of parental fights from those ’90s TV shows, the child always picks a side. Since Uncle Ronnie was my godfather and not my biological father, my choice was clear: Blood is thicker than water. I chose my mother and stopped reaching out to my godfather.

At 25, I was working for a fitness company called Flywheel Sports. Our flagship studio at the time was in the Flatiron district in Manhattan. I would often teach 7 a.m., 8 a.m. and 9 a.m. classes, which meant, before my afternoon sessions, I would have what we instructors referred to as “second breakfast” — too early for lunch, but still a full meal because I always ate before my classes and needed even more food after.

As I was walking to the Starbucks around the corner, still sweating in my company-branded tank top and shorts, I switched my phone off airplane mode. The first notification to pop up was a voice mail message from Uncle Ronnie. I hadn’t spoken to him in four years.

I stopped on the sidewalk, my stomach growling but my voracious heartbeat drowning it out, and pressed play. “Brandon, it’s your godfather. This is getting ridiculous. Now cut the shit and call me.”

As I pulled the phone from my ear, I could feel my hand shaking. He was angry. And rightfully so — his falling out was with my mother, not me. “I’ll call him back,” I thought. “I have to call him back. I will call him back.” My stomach rumbled, and I was reminded of my usual routine. I walked into Starbucks and continued my day. I didn’t call him back.

A few months later — on Nov. 1, 2013, to be exact — I got a voice mail message from my mother. “Hey Bran, I’m calling because Uncle Ronnie died today.” I don’t remember the rest of it because an enormous wave of shock ran through my veins. Then, deep guilt. To this day I don’t know if he knew then that he was on his final trip around the sun, but of course I wonder if that’s why he called. If he was trying to tell me.

I didn’t attend his funeral, which took place in Delaware, where he was from originally. After my grandmother’s homegoing only three years earlier, I couldn’t bring myself to experience that again. I also felt too much shame. As a second grader, I had been embarrassed of not having a father. Now, I was faced with the devastating reality that I did in fact have one and didn’t treasure him. And now he was gone.

A little over eight years later — which also happens to be the length of time I’ve been in therapy — I can see the undeniable imprint his life made on mine. I may not have resembled Uncle Ronnie physically — my skin darker, my face rounder, my frame bigger — but there are few words I love more than “fabulous” and “honey.” Few things I love more than art and furniture. Few places I love more than a bougie restaurant. Few sensations I miss more than his insatiable tickle monster.

We may not have been blood, but I belonged to him before we ever met. And though I may not deserve it, he still manages to be my life’s compass. He still manages to be my father. I may have lost him, but I’ll always be his son.

Brandon Kyle Goodman is an actor, writer and activist who currently writes and stars in the Netflix animated series “Big Mouth” and its spinoff, “Human Resources.”

This essay is part of a collaborative project with the Black History, Continued team. Modern Love can be reached at modernlove@nytimes.com.

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