Dear … I don’t know what to call you.
I’ve always wanted to write this to you. I’ve always wanted to write this to you because I always felt I owed you some words of closure. It took me so long to do this because it was hard for me to acknowledge and come to peace what I had done to you: taking away your life before it was given to you.
I wanted to tell you how sorry I was … am. This wasn’t how I wanted us to be. You there and me here, breathing the very same air I robbed from you.
You don’t even have a name for me to address you properly.
I had grief, a very deep regret. I wanted to give you the world. I wanted to be there when you took your first steps, read your first book, said your first words, cried on your first day at school, caught your first firefly. You would’ve been beautiful and you would’ve called me ‘Dad’.
And I heard about you and your mother and I both agreed, ‘no.’ I tried to mask the pain of it all. So quickly and callously I came to the decision, I honestly felt I didn’t deserve the privilege of crying when it was all over.
My life was a wreck. I was younger and dumb. I wasn’t in the best situation, financial, emotional, mental, spiritual, physically … all of the above, to support myself, let alone you. I was lost in this world.
Your mother and I lied about our love to each other daily because we secretly hated each other. You would’ve been born into a house, not a home. And a home with no love is no home at all.
You needed and I desired for you to have better because I always dreamt of better for myself. I didn’t want you to know what it was like growing up without a ‘me’ in the picture. It’s a pain too many live with; it’s sickening how popular it is to for someone be without a father.
I didn’t want you growing up in that same misery. It was unacceptable because despite how things turned out, I loved you. I know that doesn’t sound reasonable considering I ended your life before it began but I did.
You were worth more than what I could offer you at the time and I’m sorry.
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