Dear Sir

I did my research. I looked them all up. Searched online. Called in some favors. I know people who know shit and what they don’t know they have the right access to find. And it cost me nothing because I’m good to people. So, they all owe me from some long-ago generosity I graced upon them. A spare bedroom. Rent money. A borrowed car. An alibi.

The letters were brief. To the point even. I told them all who I was and what I wanted and what my most basic expectations were. I told them enough to light a fire. Some real. Some fake. Enough to let them assume even more. And then I told them all that they could do to make me go away. For good.

Dear Sir:

I am writing you because I believe you are my father. My mother, Alicia Etheridge, at my request, has given me your name…

I didn’t know how it would go. I gave them options. I picked only the best. The ones with something to lose. The ones who had moved on with their lives and had put the name Alicia so far in the back of their memory that it made them cringe when they read the contents of my letter. Some probably even pissed their pants a little. Alicia was dead but I didn’t bother telling them that. They likely didn’t care. I omitted it from the conversation. If someone showed up on my doorstep in tears over this whole thing then maybe I’d bother to mention it then before my noisy neighbor Ms. Brooks overheard their whining and told everyone on the street.

I understand that this may be a shock to you and that you may not be in a good situation yourself…

I knew all their “situations”. They were all good. Better than good. They had all moved on with their lives and prospered. They all had letters at the ends of their names and the families and picket fences to match. They had other children now. Daughters who they surely protected. Sons who they schooled on life. Careers and marriages, they didn’t want tested with scandal.

I mailed all the letters on a Wednesday. Certified. Signature requested. You won’t bullshit me with the “I never got it” down the line. And then I waited.

Alicia died seven years ago exactly. I was in college, living my best life. Life was good. Great exactly. Mom, after having found out she had an inoperable and incurable brain tumor showed up on my campus to take me to dinner. She told me the truth. She always did. Her truth anyway. She said she had 4 months to a year at the most. It turned out to be 5 and a half months and six days. And she was gone. But mom always had a good job. After college she had continued to earn her PhD in Education. All while raising me. Alone. I never asked her much about my Dad. When I did, she would just say, “Trust me He’s an asshole dear heart but you have me so who needs him. “So, I didn’t need him. She raised me to know how to role solo. Be independent. Take care of your own shit and expect nothing from anyone.

I had everything I wanted growing up, so I never missed it. I had Uncle Jimmy and Poppa Henry to fill in whenever I needed a father figure. They taught me how to change tires, build a shelf and negotiate.

So even when my mother died, I wasn’t out in the cold. She made sure all her I’s were dotted and her t’s were crossed. I was her only child. My trust covered my tuition for all my degrees- I too have my PhD now- my first home and I still was able to maintain a sizable savings. I now had multiple streams of income from my success as a real estate agent and investor and YouTube and Instagram Influencer. I invested my money right and made good choices. I had followers. Millions of them. I was in the spotlight. I wasn’t hiding. I didn’t need anything from anyone. But what I did need was another stream of income. I had plans. Bigger plans.

And thanks to Mother’s little black notebook I knew exactly what my plan was.

When they called me to the hospital as Mother got sicker, I took a short break from school to be able to stay with daily. When she told me to hand her her purse and she slipped me a small black notebook. I didn’t know what it was. I assumed it was a phone book and she wanted me to call some of her friends to make them aware of her situation. But all she did as she cradled the book in my hand was say, “Your Daddy is there dear heart.” That’s all she said at first. Grandma walked in and she pushed my hand and book away and amped up her energy and changed the topic. I put it away and made a mental note to ask her about it later. When I went home that night, I opened it for the first time. It read like a diary and I couldn’t put it down. Then it went blank. The dates were notes but no words. October 21st. October 22nd. October23rd. This went on for 12 days. And then I saw the list. 4 names. 4 addresses. 4 majors. Nothing else. And then the writing continued. Daily as before. And I was once again pulled into her daily college life. She kept this particular journal for about 8 months after that. After she died, I found them all. Tucked away in boxes in the crawl space. I have read them all over the years, but I have only kept the one she gave me close. And the one she left me in my childhood bedroom under my pillow. It was red. The perfect color to match the anger written inside. It was the Part 2 to the little black notebook she gave me. It told the whole story of those 4 names. The empty space. The pain.

It was homecoming weekend. Mom was enjoying all the festivities. The parties. The alcohol. Things got blurry. She thought she had got separated from her friends. She found out later they left her on purpose. Solo. Independent. You don’t need anyone dear heart. She found herself in a dorm room laying in someone’s bed trying to sleep it off. She doesn’t remember even how she got there. Everything after that happens in waves. 4 guys. Her clothes being pulled off. Her screaming no but unsure if it was coming out of her mouth in real life. Her trying to push them away but unable to feel her hands. Them all taking turns. Calling her the fun girl. Her thinking about the paper she had due next week. Her thinking about what her mother would say about her being alone with all these boys. What her father or brother would do to these jerks when they found out.

But they never found out. When she found out she was pregnant she just told them it didn’t work out and that I would be no burden to her or them. And she busted her ass to make sure that was so. So, they didn’t ask questions. She was grown she told them. She would handle it. Solo. Independent. You don’t need anyone dear heart.

And she did handle it. And never looked back. But on her deathbed, she knew it was time. She knew I could handle it. She knew I would make it right. Or Wrong. But she knew I would make whatever needed to happen and get the answers I needed.

So, the research was done. The letters were mailed. Hell, I even made a YouTube video about trying to find my beloved father that got 207k views the first three days. I made it clear I was ready to share it with the world. I left out the rape part. You know algorithms and keywords can fuck up your money sometimes. And your hustle.

I had brand deals rolling in from everything to DNA testing to Father/Daughter t-shirts to therapy sessions.

Here I was monetizing the toxic non-relationship with my sperm donor who I couldn’t even identify in a lineup. Well, I could. I had pictures. Current ones. But I haven’t opened the envelope. I didn’t need to see their faces just yet. Made it easier to see them in the same blur that my mother saw them in that night. I would close my eyes and feel her fear, pain and shame and add more zeros. I would dumb the letter down some more and appear even more lost. Let them think Alicia raised a weakling.

It took 22 days to get the first response. I had gotten one of those Walmart phones to use as a contact so they wouldn’t have my real number. I kept getting hang up calls, but no one was brave enough to leave a recorded message. The first letter had a check for 20k and handwritten note on the memo line that said Go away fund. Like he really wrote that. I got 3 more checks after that of similar or higher amounts. The memo lines said everything from Donation to Investments. Four out of four wanted me gone. Just like I knew they would. No happily married state Congressman, Mayor, Doctor or Life Coach with almost as large a following as me wants a 28-year-old child from a rape they committed in college coming out into the light. They all wanted me to vanish into a puff of smoke. Not one asked about my mother. They assumed she was an epic failure and added her to the list of their regrets.

I would let them continue to think so for now. Until the next letter. The next letter I would detail for them in her own words about that night and the following 12 days that she told me about in her last days as I laid in bed with her. Then in the next letter I would tell them about her drug habit and how me and my siblings ended up in foster care. Whatever. In my final letter I would tell them to the truth. I would tell them how great she turned out despite what they tried to do to her. How she held her head up and raised me to do the same. I would let them slowly realize how they had been hustled out of their money simply because they wanted to forget what she could not forget. They wanted to erase me and that night from their memory. Not one offered an apology. Not one inquired further. Not one wanted a DNA test. Because DNA would ask fuel to the rape. They probably wondered if she had reported it and there was some lone rape kit sitting on a shelf in the city where they attended college waiting to be reopened.

And I did not offer them anything to ease their worries. Fuck them all. They were all assholes. Just like Mother said. But I would withhold any information that would give them peace. They didn’t deserve peace. Let them keep filling my P.O Box up with checks until they couldn’t any longer. They helped me flip 10 more properties this year. Who needs one Daddy when you can have four? I have closure now. From the moment I realized I was the product of rape my mother’s words became my mantra. Solo. Independent. You don’t need anyone dear heart.

Dear Sir by Angela Wesley- All Rights Reserved. ©