Dear April (First Draft)

Dear April,

It’s your birthday! Turning fifteen, I see. I know they always say it, but you grow up so fast. The day you were born feels like yesterday. You still are my baby girl.

I’m sorry, I’ve written a letter, well, at all since I can remember. I’m not much of a poet. But, every time we meet (and I know it's only been a few times), you have so many questions! Of course, when you were four, I couldn’t tell you some of these things. But you’re going to hear it from me, or you’ll search it on Google, or find out some other way. And anyway, you deserve to know everything. I want to tell you everything.

I think the last time we met, you were thirteen? So it's been two years, wow. When you’re a kid, two years is like a lifetime. Now I blink and it’s already passed by. I’m sure the years are getting shorter for you, too, but let me give some good advice–don’t let those years pass you by. And I don’t mean in the cliche way, I mean now and then, go to a coffee shop, sit in a corner booth, and for maybe an hour or two, forget about everything that happened yesterday, and everything that could happen tomorrow. Just sit, just in the mixture of talking, watch the cars pass by, and live in that moment. Like a picture in a frame, frame yourself in a moment.

You’re fifteen? I remember when I was that age. I was quite the playboy, or at least I told myself I was. In reality, I couldn’t get a single number. Until I did, and her name was Irisa. It was what I thought was love. Don’t make my mistake and confuse love with lust.

You once asked me, “Was I a mistake?”. That was the last time we met. By then, you were old enough to understand complex things like that. I told you no. But I don’t want to lie to you anymore. Remember when I said I confused love for lust? So did she. After about a year together, we were used to doing that act. You know what it is; I don’t need to go into graphic detail. But I got her pregnant. We were seventeen.

I always loved watching television, but not any show. Bob Ross, the calming man himself. Bob Ross, being a painter, made plenty of masterpieces. But he was also human, and he didn’t let his humanity get in his way. When he messed up, he didn’t make a mistake. He made a happy accident. Irisa and I made a happy accident. So you weren’t a mistake, I would never take you back, I never once wished you’d go away. Something doesn’t need to be intentional for it to be good. But you weren’t good. You were the best thing to ever happen to me.

I mean that in the sense of love. I had never loved anything quite as much as I loved you. But I was seventeen. I was making minimum wage, and I lived with my parents. And when she got pregnant, that's when the facade of lust crumbled and revealed how little love there was.

She was amazing. She found time even in pregnancy to care for me. It should have been reversed. It was my fault. Once the physical pleasure ended, I realized how little emotion I had connected with her. Or maybe realized is the wrong word; it revealed itself over time. In any case, I broke up with her right after you were born. I wasn’t ready to be a father. I was too young to understand my actions had consequences, let alone to pay the price for them.

I suggested to Irisa that we put you up for adoption. She said no. That's when I left. It’s not that I thought you were a burden, but I thought about the future: raising a child with a girl I didn’t love, that wouldn’t be a good life for anyone, especially you. After I left, she put you up anyway. I guess she couldn’t handle being a seventeen-year-old single mom. Again, I don’t blame her. You shouldn’t either.

It's funny, I was thinking about the future. Even without the family life, I had a pretty rocky time in the world. I was eighteen now. I graduated from high school but didn’t go to college. Instead, I went to a place I thought would solve all my problems. I went to Sin City itself, Fabulous Las Vegas!

I entered Vegas with $6,500 to my name. I was eighteen, three years below the gambling age. I wasn’t gonna sneak into a casino, but I found something else: alcohol. I’m talking Bourbon, Whiskey, Vodka, all the hard stuff. Drinking age there was twenty-one, but unlike the casinos, it was scarily easy to get my hands on a bottle of Jack Daniel's. It cost me, though.

I was in Vegas for three weeks and returned home with $300 and a new addiction. I then understood why it's called Sin City.

We’re gonna fast-forward a bit. Three years later, I’ve drowned myself in debt and Whisky. I didn’t look into the future; in a way, I was living in the moment. Not in a good way, though. I didn’t look forward to the next day because I thought this day might be last; no, I hoped for it. If I were dead, I would have no loans or sadness or anything. I would be with the big man himself. Or would I?

That fear of death, the unknown, kept me alive. If I did today, where would I be? Based on what I was doing with my life, I wouldn’t be seeing the pearly gates. So, I thought back ot the last good thing that happened in my life. I thought of you.

Now you were four, and I arranged to meet you. You were with your new parents, Rob and Jen. They seemed nice. They did a better job than I ever could have. They agreed, so I put on my best clothes, some mint gum, and we met at an Applebee’s, remember? You always loved the yogurt and strawberries there.

I didn’t tell anything too deep and didn’t ask any questions too hard. Win-win. That's also the same day I learned Irisa named you April. I loved that name, always have.

We only ever met four times. When you were four, eight, nine, and thirteen. Every time I saw you, it made my year.

I remember our meeting when you were eight. That played out a little differently.

This time we met in your home (I guess Rob and Jen’s home, but still). You were older, bigger. I barely recognized you.

There was one moment I distinctly remember. I was walking into your living room, Jen had just let me in, and I saw you playing with a doll on the carpet. I looked around, I saw the clean surfaces, beautiful sunlight covering everything, and you. You turned and looked at me. I was smiling, but I could tell by the look on your face you didn’t recognize me.

It’s not your fault, of course, you were four last time I’d seen you, but a thought just struck me right then and there, and struck hard. You didn’t love me. Of course, you didn’t, you didn’t know me. I had spent so long trying to find you, I that I was a stranger, and I had imposed that title on myself.

We did get to sit down and talk, and I explained I was your dad. This time around, you’re questions were deeper. Not quite philosophical, but you weren’t a toddler anymore. You asked a harder question—questions like why I wasn’t there or why you already have a dad. I managed to answer all of these. I just sat there. I wasn’t sure what I was doing there. You had moved on. Actually, you had never even known me; there was nothing to move on from. I wasn’t part of your life, and was trying to wedge myself in.

I saw you again the next year, and it was much of the same. You recognized me this time and asked fewer questions. When I asked you personal questions, such as about friends or school, you gave single-word answers. You don’t give a stranger all your personal information. I’m glad Rob and Jen were raising you well, at least.

The big question came when you were thirteen. And my goodness, you had grown. Like, really. You looked now more like a young woman than a pig-tailed little girl. But you wanted to know more now. I guess you and your mother are more important to you now. That makes sense; an eight-year-old doesn’t give a crap about their past.

This time we were in this burger joint with brick walls, and we sat in a corner, both the red ones with a big white stripe down them. We sat down, ordered some food, and once the waiter left, you looked me in my eyes (with your’s welling up) and asked the dreaded question.

“Was I a mistake?”

Like I said earlier, and like I’m sure you remember, I said no. I’ve already told you the truth on that topic, but there was more you said. Once I said no, you asked who your mom was. I told you her name was Irisa, and she was the best, sweetest, most loving person I’ve ever known. For the first time in that conversation, I didn’t have to lie. Not one bit.

You know, Irisa was quite like you. I remember, whenever she was upset, she would find a nook, maybe beside a bed or in a closet or wherever, and cuddle herself in there. I don’t know what you do to cope, but looking in your eyes, I do not doubt in my mind that you have those moments too. Where you feel helpless or frustrated or guilty, and you just hide yourself from the world.

I did the same thing, really. I would drink entire bottles of Jack Daniel's on some nights. I was hiding. You don’t have to hide. Please don’t hide. I saw it in you, that spark. You have so so so much potential, so when the world boos you for shaking things up or mocks you for being different, don’t hide. And I know all over school, you’ve seen those Be Yourself posters, and it may be now just some phrase in your mind that's lost its meaning. So, I’m not gonna pretend to be some genius, but I do have a quote that I carry in my heart. I have a feeling it will resonate with you, too.

"To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment." - Oscar Wilde

Your mother first told me that quote. To me, she might as well have been Wilde himself, but considering my life, that bar isn’t very high.

I wasted my potential. Gave it up, got a girl pregnant, ran away to Vegas, and drank away all my problems–and money. You haven’t gone down that path, and please don’t look at me as some inspiration. My life is not heroic and not noble; it's really quite sad.

Getting involved in your life won’t fix me, and it might hurt you. Like I said, the last thing I want is my influence on your life. Your young, innocent life. Please stay that way.

I’m going away to the East Coast, maybe I’ll find a few people like me. But it’s not about me. This obsession with slowly getting into your life is just such a fucking selfish plan. I just need to run away, as far and as fast as I can.

By the time you get this letter, I will probably already be there. I hope this letter answered all the questions you had, and maybe gave you a bit of advice. Advice from a deadbeat, though, so take it with a grain of salt. Well, this is it.

This story is a sad one. I hope you do find you’re happy ending, as I hope I do. But you can’t be happy with me lurking in your shadows, and I can’t be happy being the lurker. My conscience is seared, and my demons are strong. This is how I block the grenade. This is how you live in peace.

You’ll find you’re way. You’re the smartest, kindest, hardest-working person I know, and you have so much to give the world. You’ll turn sixteen. Then seventeen, then eighteen. By then, I’ll be but a memory in the back of your mind. But this is bigger than me, and I hope you know that. Good luck, I know you’ll find you’re way.

• Dad