January 24, 1999
Dear Mom,
School starts tomorrow. And honestly, it scares me. I'm worried that as soon as I walk through those gates, everyone will see right through me. Everyone will see how broken I am, because I'm not sure I can hide it. I haven't had to until now.
I remember when you and Dad dropped me off at my first day of preschool. I remember how you braided my hair into two short pigtails, gave me a Sesame Street backpack, and sent me off to play with the other children. I remember coming back to you uncertainly and asking when you would be coming back. Dad laughed and told me I'd see you two again before I knew it, and to go have fun. And I did.
Tomorrow I'll be braiding my own hair. One braid, not two, French like you taught me. And all of this will be weighing me down instead of a backpack.
When I told Dad I was going to NYU, he didn't seem to mind my leaving Stanford. I was waiting for him to say he'd drive me there on my first day, but he didn't say it. He drove me to preschool, elementary, middle, and high school. We flew to California, but he was the one who drove us from Oakland to Palo Alto. It just won't be the same without riding in his car first, going through the doors knowing he's watching as I enter.
Who am I kidding? It'll never be the same again. Whether he's there or not, you won't be. I don't know why I'm still chasing some long-gone sense of normalcy, because obviously I should've accepted by now that things are going to be different. Dad won't escort me to the door. You won't be there to kiss my forehead and wish me luck. I remember hating it when you guys did that for middle and high school—embarrassing me in front of all of my friends. And you replied back, "Well, that's what parents do."
I know it's wrong of me, but thinking about that now just makes me wonder if he's my parent anymore. We never speak. He spends more time with pictures of us than he does with the real me. I guess I should just give him some time. But I need him.
Like I need you.
I love you.
I miss you.
Love,
Kate