The letter to--

Once I found out he was in jail again, it felt safe to open up communications. I asked my sister for the address and then never wrote. I thought about what to write and composed whole lines in my head. What was okay to talk about and what was not. Wondering if he'd struggle through the reading of it himself or have someone read it to him. How much would he get from it? What would backfire in my face?

I imagined him showing up on my doorstep in a violent drug haze with the envelope clutched in his fist bearing my address. 

I never wrote the letter.

That is until I got around to reading this horrible (well written but absolutely horrible to read) book about a father who murderers his wife and stabs one of his daughters. He also happens to be a drunk. One daughter visits him in jail trying desperately to keep him happy and the other cuts him from her life. I can relate to both girls. I can see my brother in the desperate clutch of the youngest against her father's legs. I feel like vomiting every time he leans on his child for his happiness. 

I've been scared of my father.

I've been afraid he would harm my mother.

I've worried about keeping him happy so he wouldn't hurt anyone or get angry when he was drunk. I can distinctly remember pushing my little brother behind me when my father went "torture the son" while drunk and trying to change the subject with false smiles and cheer. I don't remember what "torture the son" entailed. I think maybe pinches, teasing, noogies maybe. Nothing, serious. But enough that I felt like I had to protect Bryan from my drunk father. 

I can remember him chasing us with his truck through a field between the fences and hiding in someone else's house. He threatened to fire this woman, so my mother took us back out. Yelling at my mother. Bryan and I clutched rocks in our hands. In silent agreement that if he tried to hurt her, we'd do everything we could to protect her.

I was under the age of ten. Somewhere between the grades of second and fourth. My brother, two years younger. I want to cover my eyes at my horror at what these children we were saw and what my mother had to survive caring for us and essentially, on her own. The parent in me is grief stricken for us all. 

I used to think, don't share these things publicly on the internet. He could somehow hear about it. I have never wanted to hurt him. I'm not a revengeful person. I still don't want revenge. But why should I hide him from his sins? He knows them as well as I do. I don't require his apologizes. I wish nothing more for him than his own healing. But I refuse to hide our shared past to spare him. 

We can't change what happened. 

I long ago forgave him his weaknesses.

But I still have to live with my memories.

Still---

I finally wrote him after two years of our mutual silence.

I told him, "I hope you find a sense of peace."

I told him how we all were and that I couldn't wait for spring. 

I want him to know I don't hate him and I never have. I want him to know I wish him the best. I know there is nothing more I can offer than these two things. Only he can choose to be sober and happy and kind and make whatever amends he needs to make to find peace within himself.

The truth is he is my only father. The only father I have known and despite my caution and disapproval for certain actions, I do love him. 

And so, I wrote him a letter.

I know Bryan would have wanted me to.

I feel a greater sense of peace for having done it.