Dear Dad,
I've never really been sure about what happens after death, which is funny because I work with dead people. You could be an angel in heaven, a demon in hell or just a decomposed body in the ground. I don't know. All I do know is that this letter is for you. Just you…wherever you are.
I know that we've never really gotten along. You had your rules, I had my ways, and we had our disagreements. Just about any family does, but it wasn't until I was ten that I realized that our case was quite different. By that time I wasn't sure whether I loved or hated you, but my impression was that, in spite of everything–the arguments we had over spilt milk, the things you'd say about the clothes I wore, the way you'd punish me for failing a test–you did love me. You just didn't like me. Likewise, I don't think you liked mum or Charlie all that much, which seems fair. They don't like you either.
Mum filed for divorce when I was fourteen and Charlie sixteen. Most teenagers would be upset about hearing of their parents separating, but I, personally, felt relieved. So did Charlie, as a matter of fact. Finally, we were going to live with mum and live every single day of our lives without being afraid of someone that we were supposed to love. I remember the next couple of years being blissfully peaceful without you. Our weekends visiting you were never pleasant, but it was worth it to live the rest of the week as normal teenagers with good grades, good friends, and Charlie even found himself a good boyfriend.
Things were peaceful until three years later when you gave us a call, telling us that you had been diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. After all you did to me, my mother, and my brother, I knew that seeing you before your time was up would be just as important for me as it would be for you, if for nothing else but closure. You were much kinder during that time. I think it was because you felt bad about everything and wanted to make amends.
Your funeral was a strange day for me. Because I was never certain of whether I loved you or hated you when you were alive, I wasn't certain whether to mourn your death or to celebrate it now that you were dead. That was over fifteen years ago and I'm still unsure. On the one hand, I still hear your voice telling me that I'm not good enough. I have wasted well-earned money on therapist after therapist just to forget your voice and still I hear it in the back of my head every single day. On the other, you were never a bad man. You just had your bad habits and when you weren't indulging in those habits you were lovely. Sometimes you would play with me and make me laugh. You even said that you loved me a couple of times.
That being said, in spite of everything, I forgive you.
I know that you were sorry about all those things that you said to my mother, my brother, and to me, even though you were too proud to say so. I don't know if they will ever forgive you, but I will because I don't want to think of you and wonder if you're ashamed of me. I want to think of you and believe that you are proud of me...wherever you are.
Whether you're an angel in heaven, a demon in hell, or just a decomposed body in the ground, I want you to know that I forgive you and I love you.
Love,
Molly.