Letters to my Daughter: May 12, 2017

Your father left us twice and I was never the same. The first time was when I told him I was pregnant with you. The second time was after two weeks of living together and he told me he didn't love me. We were a burden to him — he lost sleep and his blood pressure was high. I vacillated between numbness and feeling sick with grief.

I wish I could tell you there was a great romance between us and you came from it. He was kind once, but ultimately cared more about himself and his own comfort. There wasn't enough space in his life for either of us and nothing I said or did changed his mind.

While growing up, I had a fantasy of what a family should look like. I daydreamed about the man I would meet, our family pet, scattered with vague impressions of our home life and children. In my imagination our home was modest and full of the kind of love and security I didn't have. I never thought about the dress I would wear, what his proposal would be like or the kind of ring he would buy me. I wanted an ordinary home, happy children and someone who wanted to build that dream with me. I held onto that fantasy far into my twenties buried beneath earning an education and the general confusion of entering young adulthood. It's taken me until now to remember what I once valued above my stuffed animals, Jack London books and red Schwinn bicycle. It feels more unobtainable to me now than when I was nine years old and attempting to fill the emptiness I felt in my family home before I fell asleep each night. I hope to God we don't have this in common.