A Letter to my Daughter

Note: this story contains brief and implied situations of domestic violence and addiction.

To my daughter:

There are a thousand things I should have said in my lifetime:

I love you. 

I need you. 

Stay. 

Go. 

This isn’t right. 

But none of them compare to the one thing I should have said to you. None of them would change anything that happened in my life, at least not for the better. 

I still think of the night your mother and I received that phone call. I can still hear the phone clatter to the kitchen floor. I can still feel my heart stopping, freezing, breaking. As the days, weeks, months, and years have passed, my heart hurts all the same. I can still feel the chills, the dread, the sickness of knowing you were gone. The denial. The fear. The guilt. All these years later, and still I feel it. 

When you moved out, your mother told me to remind you to visit. 

“She’s an adult, she can do whatever she pleases,” I had said. I wish I hadn’t. 

When you got your first serious boyfriend, your mother told me to spend a day with him. Get to know him, she had said. 

“They’re both adults. I trust her judgment, and if he wants to meet me, he’ll work that out with her,” I had said. I wish I hadn’t. When he broke your heart, it was your mother who comforted you. She begged me to say something, do anything. 

“That’s part of life,” I had said, “she has to learn to handle these things herself.” Oh, how I wish I hadn’t. 

When months passed and you stopped visiting, your mother begged me to give you a call or visit on my way home from work. 

“I’m sure she’s busy with school. She’ll visit when she’s free,” I had said. I didn’t know how wrong I was. Of course, you did visit eventually. I knew you would. But you weren’t my daughter. You weren’t the little girl I took to the park, drove to softball games, or took to the arcade. You came home sick. You came home covered in bruises, with hallowed eyes, without an appetite for your favorite foods. You came home quiet, without a smile or a laugh. You came home looking for the whiskey bottle every chance you got. We didn’t know you had found someone. We didn't know how he treated you, how he made you feel. We didn't know until you visited that day, begging for help. He took things too far this time, you had sobbed. 

We called the cops. We protected you. We kept you safe from him. But, we couldn’t keep you safe from yourself. Your reckless behaviors, your drinking problems, your drug problems. We tried. We checked you into rehab, but you left early. You stayed in your bed all day. Your mother begged and pleaded that I do something. That I force you to stay in rehab, or get a job, or take time off work to supervise you. 

“She’s an adult! I can't force her to do anything she doesn't want to do!” I snapped. I wish I had done those things. Instead, your mother took off work. She watched you all day. I drove you to all of your appointments and therapies, and waited outside until you were done. We thought you had started to get better after a while. You got a job. You began to smile at my stupid jokes again. You laughed at your favorite movies. You asked for your favorite foods. 

You went back to school, but stayed with us. That was the deal. You come home every night, so that we can protect you. We drove you to your parties, and made your friends promise there’d be no alcohol. We checked in with you to make sure your grades were good. We thought you were getting better, but maybe we were just hopeful. Maybe I was just hopeful. 

We let you leave. I’m ready now, you insisted. Besides, it’ll be on campus and I’ll have a roommate. You guys can visit whenever you want, and I can still talk to my therapists and counselors. Your mother was skeptical. I was too, but if you said you were ready, then what was I to do? We made a deal: you visit every Saturday, and we visit randomly once a week. You agreed. We agreed. It should have worked. 

We visited, you visited. Your room was always clean and neat. You looked healthy. Gained some weight, joined some student clubs, made some new friends. As time passed, your visits became less frequent, but your mother and I felt you were safe. You visited once or twice a month, always with a smile. You went to work on time, went to all of your classes. We visited less too. Something always came up, and besides, you looked good. You acted happy. You were my little girl again. What was there to worry about? 

Of all the things your mother told me to do or say, I don’t know that it would have changed anything. I don’t know that forcing you to stay home and attend appointments, I don’t know that comforting you after your first heartbreak, I don’t know if reminding you to visit–I don’t know that any of that would have changed anything. I don’t know if any of that would have saved you. But, each day, every passing moment, I think about the one thing I should have said: 

”We’re here for you. I’m here for you.”

I thought we showed it. I thought I showed it. I thought you knew it. I thought that you knew our door was always open. I thought you knew you were loved. I thought you knew you could never disappoint or shame us. I thought you knew you’d always be my little girl. 

But you didn’t. And maybe its because I didn’t listen to your mother. Maybe, it's because I didn't force you to do anything. I was so afraid to force you to stay home, to force you to get help, because I thought if I did, we may lose you. So, I did nothing. I never told you what I thought you knew. I told you I loved you, I told you we needed you, I told you we were proud. But I never told you we were there for you. I never told you I would always be there for you. Though I have no certainty that anything your mother told me to do would have saved you, I know that if I had said those words, you’d still be here. 

I know that if I had said those words, I would have never had to get that phone call. I would have never had to identify your body, and tell your mother our worst fear came true. I would have never had to go to your dorm, and empty locked drawers of empty bottles and syringes. I would have never picked out a casket. I’d never have to write and read an eulogy. Friends thought it was just a car accident. I didn't have the heart to tell them about your struggles. I couldn’t tell them you drank too much, took a little too much of some drug, and lost control of the car. Or, maybe you knew what you were doing. I couldn’t face that as I watched your body be lowered six feet under the earth. I couldn't tell them that I had failed you. I didn't want them to think less of you, because even though you were lost, you were still my little girl. 

You were my little girl who loved to watch old movies. My little girl, who ate ice cream until she got sick. You were the smart, studious girl who looked out for others.

You were the brightest young woman in town. The one who volunteered on the weekends without being asked. The one who got a summer job even though you didn't need it. The one who bought lunch for those who couldn't afford it. The one who got into the school of their dreams, ready to pursue a future dedicated to helping others. The one who would do anything for somebody in need. You were the young woman little girls aspired to be–the one a father could only hope he could raise. You were a beautiful, wonderful young woman with so much to live for, but you were always my little girl. 

Those words haunt me every day. I think about them as I drive past the graveyard. I think about them as your mother wastes away in sorrow. I think about them when I pass your room. I think of you when I think of those words. I think of the times I took you to the park, and you skinned your knees. I think about the times when I took you out to ice cream after a hard day at school. I think about the moment I bought you your first dog. I think about the times you asked me to check for monsters under your bed or in your closet. I think about your first real Christmas. Your first sleepover. Your first breath. Your first smile. The first time I heard you laugh. I think about your eyes, and how they glinted mischievously when you tried to prank me after work. I think about your crooked, perfect smile. When I think of those words, I think of you, and all that I’ve lost. 

So, in the end, nothing I’ve ever said mattered. 

I love you. 

I need you. 

I’m proud of you. 

You’re so strong. 

Everything will get better soon. 

Because I never said the one thing you needed to hear: “I’m always here for you.”

Love always, 

Dad