Growing up, my dad worked late.
He always brought me back snacks and kissed my forehead before bed.
Said he was proud of me, even on the quiet days.
Last week, he passed away.
It was sudden.
We didn’t get to say goodbye.
While clearing out his room, I found a drawer full of old notebooks.
Each one had my name written on the front.
Every page inside? Letters.
To me.
Some dated from when I was just five years old.
“Today you learned to ride your bike. You fell twice. Got up three times. I cried when you didn’t see me clapping.”
“You had a bad dream tonight. I held your hand until you slept.”
“I missed your recital today. I watched the video five times. I’m sorry.”
Every missed moment had a letter.
Every quiet hug had words I never heard until now.
He wrote about his fears.
About wanting to be better.
About how hard it was to be away so much.
One letter said, “I worked late so your dreams could start early.”
Another said, “I hope one day, you’ll understand I never left because I wanted to.”
I cried harder than I ever have in my life.
He had saved my drawings, notes, even birthday candles.
There was one letter marked: “For when I’m gone.”
It said, “Don’t look for me in photos. Look for me in your strength. Your laughter. Your stubborn kindness.”
“I was never more myself than when I was your dad.”
I hugged that letter like it was him.
I wish I had read them sooner.
I wish I had told him I saw his love, even in silence.
I kept the notebooks close.
I read a few pages every night.
It still hurts.
But now, even in his absence, I feel him again.
And every word tells me: I was always loved.
4o