You are on my mind today. But that’s not unusual. It’s crazy how after 13 years, it doesn’t feel that long since I last saw you. It’s also crazy that I spend far less time thinking about that final day and how awful it was and spend the majority of the time replaying the good memories from all the years before it. But even in the comfort of remembering, I know I made the right decision.

Even now, 13 years later, the mix of happy times with the most confusing and painful moments leaves me grasping for answers I have come to accept I will most likely never obtain. Who are you, really? Which of the dads I knew is really you? I do truly believe you loved me and that you enjoyed being with me. But where the pure, fatherly affection ended and the twisted, self-preserving possession began is impossible to define. Did you even know you had that side? I’m still not sure you did.

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Thirteen years later, I am in many ways just beginning the grief process. I miss you. I miss drinking tea and eating burritos with you. I miss your head-thrown-back laugh when we would retell, yet again, the story of you crashing into the trundle bed in the dark. I miss the days when knowing you were home made me feel safe. When hearing your slippers scuffing across the kitchen floor toward my room was a welcome sound and didn’t induce panic. When you coming to sleep in my bed with me was an honor and reminded me that I was acceptable, and maybe even special.

My years in therapy have introduced a troubling understanding and perspective on these memories, yet they still return with a certain level of comfort. Acknowledging this makes me feel dirty. I hate that I liked feeling special. I hate that even now, with over a decade apart, I still wrestle with a deep desire to be chosen.

As painful as it was when I found out that you had moved on with a new family, I also felt so much relief. Knowing you are not alone gave me peace. At the same time, it introduced a new layer of guilt in my mind. What is my role now? Do I warn them about this broken, frightening version of you I experienced? Could they separate the charming mask they currently know from the tormented face hiding underneath? Or would that simply remind you that I’m still out here? All I have wanted from you is that you stop chasing me. Just forget about me. Let me go. So how, then, do I still feel left out of your life, when I was the one who chose to leave?

I mourn the fact that my children will never know you and you will never know them. As they are growing into an awareness of the broken state of my family, I’m bracing myself for the questions that will continue to increase in frequency and specificity. I still don’t quite know how to answer their first: “Mommy, where is your dad?”

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I am so thankful that God’s grace is present now even before He finally and forever makes right all that is still wrong. Thank you for telling me about Him. While I spent a long time trying to separate your heavy hand from anything to do with Him, I am living proof that His word—no matter how or why it may have been shared—does not return void. Even though there are many days I deeply struggle with praying for what feels impossible, I will continue asking Him for healing—healing for you and then for you and me. And while so far, restoration feels as distant now as it did 13 years ago, I know He is here and He is answering because He is slowly healing my heart.

I love you, Dad.