Dear Son,

We haven’t met and it’s unfortunately become apparent that we never will. Let me introduce myself: I am your mother’s ex-husband and your father. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to be there for you as much as we both might have liked and circumstance prevents us from doing so.

I’ll never forget the day that I found out about you. It was five days after your mother had kicked me out. It’s about the only thing I remember from the otherwise alcohol and drug-induced haze. I was a time bomb waiting to explode. It was amazing that I had survived so much booze, so many injections, and all of those pills. I’m certain that if it had lasted another week, I wouldn't be here writing this letter.

When they told me I was going to be a father, it didn't hit me until the next day. I started thinking about my father, and how he was never there for me. Perhaps if he had been, things would have turned out differently. I must confess that I have never handled responsibility responsibly. But until you, I had never had so much riding on me. Instead of a woman’s happiness, or an employer’s bottom line, I was responsible for another human life. That was when I decided that I would be the father to you that my father never was to me.

Understandably, your mother didn’t see it that way. I had burned that bridge and was no longer welcome in her, or your, life. To be fair, she was well justified. She'd given me two dozen more chances than I deserved and I squandered them all. As far as she was concerned, I was not to be anywhere near you. The judge agreed. Not that I blame her or that I would have done anything differently if I were in her shoes. I was, sadly, not a very good man.

My youth was spent in and out of juvenile hall. I smoked my first cigarette at eleven, my first joint at 13, and took my first dose of acid before I could legally drive. Not that the law stopped me from driving of course. I was addicted to at least four different substances by the time I hit twenty-one. Your mother, God bless her, tried. I, of course, in my arrogance and self-centeredness, pushed her away every chance she gave me to.

She lived in constant fear of me. I let it happen. I wanted her to fear me. The final straw was when I brought out the gun, I suppose. I don’t know why I did it. I loved your mother. I still do. But there was so much anger and hatred. I wish I was strong enough to defeat it, but obviously I wasn’t.

I don’t know what happened, but when I found out I was going to be a father, suddenly all the hatred seems so empty and pointless. I finally had something to live for. I only wish I was able to convince your mother that I had changed. I tried, but it was undermined by the smell of alcohol on my shirt that I couldn't afford to get washed. I told her that I would prove that I’ve changed and I’ve been working to that end ever since.

I haven’t touched any of the drugs in years. I don’t even drink socially anymore. Twelve steps and twenty-eight days and I was a new man. Without those things eating away at me, suddenly everything seemed so much easier. I was showing up to work on time. They even gave me a promotion.

I have tried to atone for the sins I’ve committed. I’ve volunteered at church (I’m attending church!) and helped build homes for Habitat for Humanity. I also visit prisons through the church, trying to reach out to other souls who, like me, are trying to find their way free from the mist.

Two years ago I met someone. She is a public school teacher and a saint of a human being. We get along together very well. I don’t need her to fear me to feel big - just being around her does that. She has a daughter a couple years older than you. Sometimes I dream that your family and my family are in the park together, and all my sins have been forgotten.

Unfortunately, sometimes our past catches up with us long after we think we’ve escaped. About a year ago I coughed up blood for the first time. The doctors explained it to me but when the medical mumbo-jumbo becomes English, it says that I’m dying. They’re going to open me up tomorrow, but the chances are strong that I won’t survive the surgery. In fact, if you’ve gotten this letter, it means that I didn’t.

Your mother, out of her love for you, granted me my last wish.

Sometimes I think about who I was before you came along. I was going full-speed ahead into self-destruction. I couldn’t possibly have survived as long as I did if it hadn’t been for you. Over the years, I’ve started living for the first time. I can see the beautiful world around me unfiltered by the narcotics and hatred that so jaded my view before. I have become someone. I have actually enjoyed life. I have even become a family man, even if you couldn’t be a part of that family.

I’m not afraid to die. I have sinned and the Devil must be paid his due. I am only sorry that I couldn’t have been there for you like I would have liked. I am sorry that you, too, suffered from my actions. I owe you so much. These past ten years have been by far the best of my life, and you gave them to me. Furthermore, when I meet God I will see him as a redeemed man and not the sinner who would have met him a decade ago.

Thank you, Son, for putting ten years onto my life and salvation into my soul.

Love,
Dad

[Written in March 2001]