Dear Dad,

I wish you were there for those thirteen years. I barely know you, it seems. I don’t know how you could just leave me and my brother there with my mentally ill mother, for eight years. Were we not good enough? Were we a mistake? Well that’s apparent, but we were your mistake, and you just swept us under the rug.

When we moved back to your state, I was just a kid and so happy to see my daddy, although I would never call you that. I think you were in my life for a total of four years, as a normal parent, a loving one that sees their child on a regular basis (not once a month, if I was lucky). I know you were busy, making money, enjoying the company of your new wife. Was it worth it?

I would never call you father to your face. It was too hard. I could barely call you by your name. I knew it was wrong—that it wasn’t normal for a child to call their dad by his first name—but I also knew I could never call you dad. Now I don’t call you anything.

Love, your son,

Anon, age 20