I wish I could say I love you, but I don’t. In fact, maybe it’s a relief. You gave me life, and I’ve given you nothing. Not now anyway. I tried to love you many times—I used to think I did. But what I once thought was love was simple desperation. I was desperate to be loved by my father. To having loving things said to me. To have a man who thought I was wonderful.
I hated my mother for keeping you out of my life, and when I found out that it was you that gave me up, I knew that she somehow forced you. I swore I’d never do that to my child. I stood firmly in the conviction that every child had a right to her father.
Today I know better. I wanted to know you, and so I began to know you, and it didn’t take long for me to realize that I did not want to know you at all. I don’t ache for the lost years when you were not around anymore, I drop to my knees and give thanks that you never were. Because it hurt me that my daddy didn’t want me, but who would I be had you been there? Would I have ever found a way to stop hurting or would the pain have been too much to bear?
Thank you mom, for protecting me. I’m sorry for the fear you must have lived with knowing how much he could hurt me if he had the chance. I’m sorry I didn’t understand sooner. Thank you for saving me from that monster who calls himself dad.
And to “you”…well… I’m sorry, but I just don’t love you at all.