To you,

I'm writing to you today since your absence is more prominent, more painful than on other days. Addressing you as 'Dad' seems too casual, 'father' sounds too formal, and calling you by your first name just feels off. So I settle for 'you.' I use it more often than 'Dad' or 'Father,' anyways. Realistically, you lost the privilege of being titled my ‘Dad’ or my ‘Father’ when you left.

It has been over 10 years since we last saw each other. I've had ten years to process this, to move past it. Yet today is still challenging. There's still a gray hue in my vision, and it's harder to find the day's beauty. I can't seem to manage through the day any easier. Is today an easy day for you? Do you just ignore it? Are there people you celebrate with now? I wonder if you have other kids, a new family that works better for you. See, a million questions with no answers. Even a decade later, I still don't know if I want to know your answers. I can imagine whatever answers I want when I don't have them. I can envision you as a horrible person who has no regret, so I can be relieved I never asked. Sometimes I can see you as someone so crushed by your mistakes that you'd give me the sun, the moon, and whatever constellations I found beautiful to earn my forgiveness and love. It makes me seem like I should have done more, but I know that isn't my burden.

On Father's Day, it reminds me how we are essentially strangers. Would we recognize one another if we passed each other on the street? I don't know your laugh, voice, or what you do for a living. You don't know mine either. Do we have similarities that defy the time and distance between us? Even if we did, I'm not sure if I would be proud of that, if it's something I want to be part of me. Would any connection between us that defied time and space make me capable of what you did to me? I don't think so, but I doubt you did either. You've made some decisions that may not impact your life, but affect my life. In what world is that fair? When you left, I was burdened with questions of "Why?" and "Was it my fault?". A nine-year-old girl, wondering if she isn't good enough. That's a ruthless thing to do to another human being, one who you were supposed to care for, to love. Those questions follow me to this day, not about just you, but for everyone in my life who doesn't stay. I always ask if I did enough or what was wrong with me. Your negligence still makes me question my worth as a person now. Does your failure make you question yours? Or have you moved on? Can you?

I know that your leaving had nothing to do with me. That was your decision entirely, based on your own selfish desires. Yet that came after years of contemplation and self-discovery. It wasn't a security I grew up with. So today is difficult because of you and your decisions since today is supposed to be a day of celebration. Ultimately, today is a day when I am reminded of my shortcomings and what I lacked, and it's hard to celebrate. I didn't grow because I had a father who created a stable foundation for me. I grew because I escaped a broken one.

In some moments, I wonder what life would be like if today was a genuine day of celebration. If we were in each other's life and I knew your voice and who you are as a person. Would you be on my Instagram story every Father's Day? Would I remember you teaching me to tie my shoes or how to drive? Are you the type to interrogate any boy I liked, deem them undeserving of me, and try to save me from heartbreak? Would I listen to your disapproval? Would you have created a space for me to feel free to make mistakes and say "no," and wander through this life with awe and fearlessness?

Part of me wishes all of those hypotheticals were my reality. I see myself as being more of a healed person, more fulfilled. I'd know what healthy connections look like and could make smarter choices. My life would have gotten to the good part much faster. These are all hypotheticals that make me visualize you as a good person. They also made me realize what I don't have and what I had to do for myself. So hypotheticals don't change anything. You left, and I went on, and it formed part of who I am. I am grateful for who I am —not necessarily what you did—since I was gifted with undeniable strength and perseverance. Do not consider this as me thanking you because that is not the case. I turned the pain you caused into something to grow, all on my own.

Just like every other Father's Day, I will survive this day. 11:59pm turns to 12:00am, and I'll be onto the next. Over the years, I may not have outgrown the hurt, but I have outgrown the anger. My anger towards you and what you did does not serve me anymore. I don't believe you dedicate the same effort to wondering about me, so I can't give that time and energy to you. I am just disappointed that you weren't able to do better. Disappointed because your absence took so much from me. There will be things that I'll never get to relate to or understand because of your decisions. Maybe I can rationalize your choices in a few more years and understand your perspective, but that's not this year. If somehow you come across this and read it, I hope it sticks with you. I hope you realize the severity of your mistakes and that I may never want to learn who you are now. I may never forgive what you did or understand your immaturity—when it launched me into premature maturity. Although I imagine you’ll never read this, and I was taught to never talk to strangers anyway. 

From,

Dalyah, a stranger

Header Piece by Rida Chaudhry, Graphic by Owen Doane