Dad,

Well, it’s been 2 years since you’ve been gone and 19 years this month since the last time I talked to you.

I attended your funeral and all of your friends told me that you never stopped loving me. I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t; that wasn’t the place or the time to call them fools for believing you, but then you were always good at lying to people.  I really don’t believe that you did tell them that, I know that they were trying to console me.  You couldn’t tell me that you loved me but I’m to believe that you told your friends that you did?  Yeah, right. 

I was mad at you for dying and not giving us the chance to talk things through, mad at you for never getting to know your grandsons, mad at you for not telling me that you loved me, mad at you for taking away the chance from me to tell you that I loved you. Because whether we believe it or not, I do/did love you–you were my father–but after talking to so many people after your death it made me realize something. God you were such a jerk! 

I never understood why you couldn’t say I love you to me, but I think I can understand now, with the help of my therapist.  I looked too much like my mom and you hated her (or at least you told me you did), hated her for leaving you, somehow that hate passed on to me.  Don’t get me wrong, I know you loved me in your own way, you took care of me for 8 years by yourself, and you gave me everything that I could have wanted: clothes, cars, jewelry. But what you didn’t give me was something that I needed from you. I needed to hear those little words and you were so hard-headed that you couldn’t give them to me. The one thing that wouldn’t have cost you a dime and you couldn’t do it.

I know I hurt you when I left town, but you hurt me, too, dad. I was 19, pregnant and scared to death and you kicked me out because “people of our social status are not un-married and pregnant."  It really hurt looking at all of the photos at your funeral, seeing you holding a little boy.  Knowing that he was your girlfriend’s grandson and seeing you hold him when you never held your own grandchildren, that really hurt.  Fortunately for my boys, they didn’t go to your funeral, they didn’t see how much you were still hurting me even after you died.  In reality, I didn’t want them to go to the funeral, I didn’t want them to hate you anymore than they already do and to be quite honest, they didn’t want to go. They said they would go and be there for me if I wanted them to.  The oldest one said, "He didn’t want me around before I was born, why should I go and pretend to care that he’s gone?"  How could I argue with that?

Mom said that she talked to you the night you died, not in person but in her dreams. You came to her and apologized for everything: the lying, drinking, and cheating, and you told her that you had always loved her and that’s why you never re-married.  She told me of this "dream” before we knew that you had died because I didn’t find out until the day after.  I was waiting to see you in my dreams, but I’ve never seen you, so I’ve quit waiting.  Apparently, in death, like in life, it’s too much for you to tell me that you loved me.  Don’t worry, I’m slowly getting over it.  And thank you. Because of you, I tell my boys how much I love them and how proud I am of them and that no matter what happens I will always be there for them each and every day.

I am very proud of my boys.  I would have loved to tell you about them before you died, and I realize that I can tell you now, but I’m not going to, because I don’t think you deserve to know them.

I would sign off as “I Love You” but I’m not sure that those are the correct words, so I’m just going to sign off and maybe one of these days you will be able to let me know that you love me. But not to worry, I’m not going to hold my breath, because we all know that Hell couldn’t handle us both right now.

Your daughter,
T