When we’re young we’re responsible for only ourselves. Childhood should be carefree and full of joy. As we grow up, more is added to our plates until they’re full to bursting. As part of a family you share at least some responsibility for the well-being of everyone. For a kid that may just mean doing chores and helping out around the house. Then when you get a job you have duties people are relying on you to do properly. By the time you’ve started your own family there’s serious pressure to provide for your loved ones. I’ve always had a very strong sense of responsibility. I think it first hit me that day I stood outside my parents’ door and heard them talk about our future. I made a decision—that I’d have to be the one who would get my family out of the country—and I stood by my decision until I had finished the task. That’s taking responsibility.

I was forced to make this decision and behave like a grown-up at an early age because I knew my father wasn’t going to act. I loved my father to death—he taught me so much—but he wasn’t a man who took responsibility like that. He was a professional gambler who lived life minute by minute. He made no plans for the future because he thought the future would take care of itself, which it does if you leave everything to chance. He was an extraordinarily generous man, and he taught me that giving was better than receiving. All his life, if my father ever had any money, he’d give it away. Even when we were down and out, if he had two dollars, he would give one away. Years later, when we were together in Miami, I’d give him things—fancy watches, expensive cars—and I’d never see them again. He’d hand them over to someone he thought needed it more than he did. My dad wanted to die with one pair of shoes and one suit to his name, and he did, despite my best efforts.

The currency was changed from dollars to Cuban pesos, and those who had dollars had to convert them to pesos. It was illegal to possess U.S. dollars, or any other kind of foreign currency for that matter. When heavily armed soldiers entered our house I was shocked by the way they acted—they were so rough and aggressive. I didn’t understand what was going on. They went into my parents’ room. There was a painting on the wall, and behind the painting was a wall safe. When the soldiers knocked the painting off the wall, they found the safe. Of course, they automatically assumed that my parents were hoarding dollars and that my father must have been doing something illegal.