Dear Title
A letter to the stranger I call father, and the silence we keep between us.
A note before you read:
These are my daughter’s words—emotions she couldn’t express any other way except through this story.
The depth of the pain she carries is almost visible in this photo from her 18th birthday: a single moment shared between her, her father and me, alongside his son from his new family.
I am sharing her words today because some stories need to be heard, and some feelings deserve to be honored.
How much it hurts when you want someone, but you can’t have them.
Not because he isn’t there, but because he doesn’t want to be where you are. In that lonely place, he never even wanted to try, yet he said he gave it his all.
Every night he sleeps peacefully, thinking he did the right thing.
Isn’t that a little sad?
I don’t know why I needed him so much. I just know I did. He was replaced. Over time, it becomes nice when you don’t think, when you don’t search—but then, after that, you realize he was never really there.
He just carries a name that doesn't belong to him. Another person was both one and the other.
Still, I miss it—not him, maybe even him. Had he been different, nothing would have changed. Except he wouldn't be him.
I miss that title he has been carrying for so long. Maybe it’s ungrateful and not that terrible, just to remind you—you are not me. So don’t diminish me, because that’s his favorite hobby.
Just like that, when he’s bored, it always makes him happy.
It had to be written down somewhere, since it will never be spoken out loud.
It was long ago, so very long ago, and yet I’m still there, waiting for you, hoping, fidgeting every day—only to be met with silence. I am so angry, so lonely, even though there are many people here whom I love.
After so much waiting, you walked through those doors. You ran your hand through my hair. At that moment, there was no sweeter smile than mine.
You didn’t come for the smile because you missed it; you came for some picture over there. Then you slammed those white doors as if you had every right to.
You don’t—and you’re breaking a promise that sank just like I did. If you knew this, you’d feel guilty for a few days, but what about my years? How do those get returned? You’d say "sorry" or "come on, that was a long time ago"—those aren't your concerns anyway.
You have a tiny, sweet concern now, to whom you’ll hopefully give at least a little of what you didn’t give to me.
You always meant so much to me, even if I hate it, probably precisely because I couldn’t have you. You said you did everything for me, back then.
Do you have a mirror? Do you even know what title you carried, and still carry?
I hope it was hard for you, working so much for me; I hope it hurt you at least a little. Then again, you don’t know any better, and neither do I. Somehow, in loss, you have no justification. Even a "sorry" wouldn't be able to bring back the years. Unfortunately, it’s really sad, isn’t it?
I think because of you I fell in love with sadness, not happiness, all those disgusting things, I’m really grateful to you for that, sarcasm. You’d know that, if that’s the only thing you succeeded at with me, bravo and shame on you.
This description makes you sound like a monster, but you are just a man acting the way he acts.
Maybe in the distant future we will differ.
They used to say we look so much alike—horrible, what a comparison. I’m surely a monster to someone too. "Probably," you’d say, precisely because we are so alike.
Maybe because we carry the titles of father and daughter. Who knows what kind of daughter I am to him, maybe I’m a monster too, or simply a child who is fragile and vulnerable.
Call
Hey dad, what's up
Oh nothing much, working, you?
Nothing special, when are we seeing each other
Ah, I don't know, does Wednesday work for you
Yeah, yeah
Alright
Okay, bye
...
End of call
Every other week since 2018 this call happens, and every single time I feel sick to my stomach before we meet.
No one feels the same way, we are all flawed, but some people don't forgive mistakes, even when they have no right to judge.
This is something my title will never understand, he isn't to blame, let him remain like that forever.
Thank you, dad.
There’s something really special about seeing a parent hold space for their child’s words and experiences like this. It’s clear how much care and love goes into both the writing and the sharing, and it’s moving to witness that kind of support. Thank you for opening up this window into your world. It’s a reminder of how powerful it can be just to show up for each other, especially in ways that aren’t always visible.
Hello feelings … hadn’t heard from you in a while …
a very sad story for your daughter, and I’m sure it falls back on you as well … father daughter relationships are often complicated …
I also have a daughter, but the story is inverted … she’s the one who is so much into her own world that it feels like she turned away … I’m the one who calls … she’s always too busy … rarely even see her at all …