Dear Dad,

It’s been 13 years.
I think of all the days, months, and years
And the silence that’s been left behind.

I read your old messages, your written words,
never quite realizing how much you hurt.

You once said:
“I think depression is more painful than my back pain ever was.”

Reading that now,
I understand that pain more than I ever wanted to.
I understand the heartbreak behind it.
What you meant when you said depression made you say things
you didn’t mean, or couldn’t say right.

How you tried,
even when it didn’t look like it.

You said you did your best.
And I believe you.

But I still wonder
if you were still around,
would I have ever faced those demons?
The ones born from your battlegrounds?

Would I still be the people pleaser,
the peace maker,
the eldest daughter martyr
sacrificing every bit of myself
for the sake of the “family”?

Where would I be now?
Homebound, safe and sound?
Would I have had the courage to get on that plane and leave?

Would we still talk?
Or would I have finally written you off
tired of parenting the parent?

Would you have gotten help?
Healed from your own pain?

I wonder…
where would you be now?

Riding your Harley,
still making new friends wherever you go.
Chasing freedom,
searching for love you never understood,
like it never cost anyone anything.

Or maybe
we’d have Sunday dinners.
Your laugh filling the kitchen,
Ozzy playing in the background.

Maybe I’d have fresh voicemails,
just you checking in
“Hey Ambie… I miss ya.”

Maybe you’d meet the people I love.
Maybe you’d tell me you’re proud.
Maybe I’d believe you.

Maybe there’d be fewer walls.
Fewer questions.
Less grief pressed into the corners of my life.

Maybe we’d be okay.
Maybe I would be too.

And still, I reread your words:

“I did my best when I raised you guys.
I’m not perfect.
I screwed up at times,
so I hope you can still love me.”

And I do.

Even when it hurts.
Even when the silence
feels louder than your voice ever did.

Love ya,

Ambie