A Letter to the Father Who Left

Dear Dad,

I don’t know how to begin this letter. It feels strange even calling you “Dad.” The word feels foreign in my mouth, like a name I was never meant to say. But here I am, writing to you after all these years—years that have shaped me, scarred me, and, strangely enough, strengthened me.

You left when I was six. I don’t remember much about you, just fragments—like the sound of your laugh echoing in the hallway, the way you’d carry me on your shoulders, or the faded scent of your aftershave that lingered in the air long after you were gone. I used to cling to those memories like they were sacred, like they would somehow answer the questions that kept me awake at night: Why did you leave? Did I do something wrong? Was I not enough?

Mom told me it had nothing to do with me. She told me you were “going through something,” that you “needed space,” that sometimes “people break before they can be fixed.” I nodded, pretending to understand, but I didn’t. Not then. I only understood one thing—you were gone.

I used to wait for you, you know. Every birthday, I’d blow out the candles and make the same wish: Let Dad come back. Every Christmas, I’d glance at the door, hoping you’d walk through it with a crooked smile and a sack of presents. Every time I heard footsteps outside, I’d run to the window. And every time—it wasn’t you.

Eventually, I stopped looking.

I grew up without your voice cheering from the sidelines. You weren’t there for my first school play, or when I got into my first fight, or when I cried the night my dog died. You weren’t there when I failed my math test and thought I was stupid, or when I scored the winning goal and felt like I could take on the world. Mom was there. Always. Even when she was tired, even when the bills piled up and her hands trembled with worry, she stood strong—for me.

You don’t know how many times I’ve imagined what I would say to you if I ever got the chance. At first, I thought I’d scream. I thought I’d demand answers, shout at you for the years you stole from me, the pieces of myself I had to rebuild alone. But now, as I write this, I realize I don’t want to yell anymore.

I want to tell you what you missed.

You missed my twelfth birthday when I baked my own cake and got frosting all over the kitchen. You missed my first crush and the heartbreak that followed. You missed my high school graduation—the look on Mom’s face when I walked across the stage. She cried, you know. Not because you weren’t there—she had long accepted that—but because she was proud. Because despite everything, I made it.

You missed the nights I stayed up late wondering if I’d become like you—someone who runs when things get hard. You missed the moment I decided I wouldn’t. I promised myself I’d stay. I’d show up. I’d be the kind of person who keeps their word. And every time I feel like giving up, I think of you—and I push forward, because I refuse to be a shadow like you were.

Sometimes I wonder if you ever looked back. If you ever thought about the daughter you left behind. Did you imagine what I looked like now? Did you ever want to know who I became? I used to think the answer was no. But maybe, just maybe, you did. And maybe that’s why I’m writing this—to give you a glimpse.

I’m 22 now. I study literature. I write poems when I can’t sleep, and I volunteer at a shelter on weekends. I drink too much coffee and talk too fast when I’m nervous. I love rainy days and the smell of old books. I’ve made friends who feel like family, and family who remind me every day that blood isn’t the only bond that matters.

I’m not writing this for an apology. I’m not even writing this in anger anymore. I’m writing this because I’ve carried this silence for too long. Because pretending like your absence didn’t shape me is a lie I’m tired of telling. Because I want you to know that I grew up—not in spite of you, but partly because of you.

Pain teaches you things love never could. It teaches you resilience. It teaches you how to hold yourself when no one else will. And yes, it teaches you forgiveness.

So here it is, Dad—I forgive you.

Not because you deserve it, but because I do. I deserve peace. I deserve to let go of the weight of your disappearance. I deserve to live a life that isn’t defined by your absence.

If you ever read this, wherever you are, I hope it brings you clarity. I hope you find healing. I hope you learn to show up—for someone, anyone. Because no one should be haunted by the question what if forever.

I’ll end this letter the way I started—with uncertainty. I don’t know what you’ll do with this. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But either way, I’ve said what I needed to say.

Goodbye, Dad.

—Your daughter, Ava