Letters to the Father I Never Met

Part 1: The Box in the Attic

I found the draft notice on my seventeenth birthday, tucked in a rusted ammunition box under Grandpa’s eaves:

ORDER TO REPORT FOR INDUCTION

Pvt. Daniel Joseph Riley

Report: May 15, 1968

Beneath it lay a single faded photo: a young soldier leaning against a jeep, smiling like he hadn’t yet seen hell. Same stubborn jaw as mine. Same cleft chin.

My father. The man who’d vanished after Vietnam, leaving infant me with Grandpa. The man whose name Grandpa refused to speak.

“Looking for something?” Grandpa stood in the attic doorway, grease-stained hands clenched.

“Who was he?” I demanded.

He snatched the box. “A ghost. Best left buried.”

That night, I stole the photo and began writing.

Part 2: Letters to a Ghost

Letter #1: May 15

Dear Dad,

Today I found your face. Grandpa says you’re a coward. But if you ran from war, why’d you keep the draft notice? Why’d you leave ME?

— Leo

Writing felt like shouting into a void. I hid the letters under my mattress—until Tuesday.

“Leo!” Grandpa’s voice boomed from the garage. He held my notebook, pages trembling in his hands. Letter #3 lay open:

"...did you ever hold me? Was it the war that broke you? Or was I the mistake you couldn’t fix?"

I braced for fury. Instead, his eyes glistened. “You think he’s the one who left?”

Part 3: The Truth in the Toolbox

Grandpa led me to his workbench. Inside a hidden compartment lay:

A Purple Heart medal (Daniel Riley, 1969)

Divorce papers (Mom left him, 3 months before I was born)

A letter from Dad, dated 1990:

"Pa, tell Leo I’m not fit to be near him. The things I saw... the things I did... he’s better off with you. Don’t let him chase ghosts."

“He didn’t abandon you,” Grandpa rasped. “He begged me to raise you. Said his nightmares would poison you.”

I stared at Dad’s jagged handwriting—the same slant as my letters. “Where is he now?”

“Died in a VA hospital. 2005. Addiction and Agent Orange.” He handed me a small key. “Said to give you this when you asked.”

Part 4: The Inheritance

The key opened a storage unit smelling of dust and diesel. Inside:

A restored 1967 Ford Mustang (cherry red, my dream car)

A footlocker stenciled D. RILEY

A sealed envelope: For Leo

I tore it open:

"Son,

If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I watched your T-ball games from my truck. Saw you graduate junior high. Wanted to say ‘Proud of you’ but knew I’d break down.

The Mustang’s yours. Build something better than I did.

Love (even if I don’t know how to show it),

Dad"

Inside the footlocker: sketchbooks filled with drawings of me—at six, at twelve, at fifteen—all from a distance.

Part 5: The Unwritten Letter

Grandpa found me weeping in the Mustang’s front seat.

“He loved you,” I choked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Grandpa’s calloused hand covered mine. “I was angry. He chose war over fatherhood. Chose silence over you.” He took a shaky breath. “But I did the same. Kept his secrets like they were mine to hold.”

That night, I wrote a new letter—not to Dad, but to Grandpa:

Dear Grandpa,

You weren’t perfect. But you taught me to change oil, throw a curveball, and that showing up matters more than grand gestures.

You were there.

Thank you.

— Leo

I slipped it under his door.

Part 6: The Drive

At dawn, Grandpa woke me. “Let’s take her for a spin.”

We drove the Mustang to the coast, wind whipping through open windows. For once, the silence felt easy.

At the overlook, he cleared his throat. “Your dad loved this spot. Proposed to your mom here.” He handed me a worn map. “Marked all the places he watched you.”

I traced the dots:

Maple Street Park (my swingsets)

Riverside Library (where I studied after school)

St. Mary’s Cemetery (Mom’s grave)

“He’d want you to have this too.” Grandpa gave me Dad’s dog tags.

The metal was cold against my palm. For the first time, the ghost felt like a person.

Epilogue: The Letters Continue

I still write to Dad. But now:

I leave letters at the marked spots on the map

Grandpa adds his own notes (“Leo fixed the carburetor!”)

Sometimes, we visit the VA hospital to read veterans’ letters home

The Mustang sits in Grandpa’s garage. We’re restoring it together—sanding away old paint, polishing chrome, rebuilding what was broken.

Last week, I found Grandpa at Dad’s grave, reading aloud:

"Hey Danny. Leo got into college. Engineering, like he wanted. You’d hate the haircut..."

I knelt beside him, adding:

"...but I kept the Mustang cherry red. Just like you asked."

The wind rustled the oaks, carrying our words into the sky.

Some silences aren’t empty.

They’re just waiting for the right words to fill them.