Hey everyone, I guess this is me finally opening up about something I’ve kept buried for a long time. I didn’t expect to be typing this, but today something shifted, and I think I need to share it with all of you.
You know how they say that the smallest things can set off the biggest realizations? Well, this week I was packing up some old boxes in the attic—deciding what to keep and what to toss. It’s amazing the stuff you ignore over the years, thinking they don’t matter much. Until they do. I was rummaging through old keepsakes when I found a box I hadn’t seen in over a decade. It was an unassuming shoebox, taped up and tucked behind a bunch of dusty books.
When I opened it, I knew immediately what it was. Letters. Letters from my father. I hadn’t allowed myself to think about them since I was a teenager. But suddenly there they were, dozens of them, held together with a faded red ribbon that my mom had probably tied.
Just holding them, I could feel something change inside me, a door creaking open that I thought was long sealed shut. I sat down, right there on the attic floor, dust particles dancing in the light filtering through the small window. I hesitated for the longest time, staring at that neat bundle, heart pounding.
The truth is, these letters were a part of the most confusing chapter of my childhood. My parents divorced when I was twelve, and it was messy. Dad left, and even though I’d clung to those letters at first, hoping they’d bridge the absence, eventually they just turned into a source of unresolved confusion and pain. I stopped reading them after the third one.
But sitting there in the attic, I felt a compulsion. I untied the ribbon and unfolded the letter at the top. The paper was aged, the ink slightly faded but still legible. My father’s handwriting, slightly slanted, greeted me like an old friend.
‘Hey champ,’ it began, and I couldn’t stop a tear from slipping down my cheek. Each word was like a gentle knock on a door I’d never dared to open. He wrote about his days, the small things, like the garden he’d started and the books he was reading. But most of all, he wrote about how much he missed me, how proud he was, and how he understood if I was angry. He never stopped saying he loved me.
Letter after letter, I read through four, five…ten, and with each one, I felt my tightly held resentment slowly unclench. I could hear his voice, clearer than any memory, not asking for forgiveness, but just hoping I’d understand. It’s like he was sitting right there with me, whispering truths I hadn’t dared to listen to before.
I realized something profound in that attic—something quiet yet monumental. My anger and pain had become a habitual shield against the fear of further hurt. But by holding onto that shield, I’d been blocking out any possibility of healing.
It was like waking up from a long sleep and realizing that the truth isn’t always as painful as we fear. Sometimes it’s freeing. I had spent so many years telling myself that he didn’t care, that his leaving was a definitive silence, when in fact, his words were there all along—just waiting for me.
After reading those letters, a weight I didn’t know I was carrying began to lift. I can’t say all the hurt is gone, but I feel it shifting, evolving into something more manageable, something less jagged.
I’m sharing this not just for myself, but maybe for anyone who’s got their own attic full of forgotten truths. It’s never too late to open them up, to let yourself feel and forgive.
I’ve decided to write back, even if he doesn’t receive them. I’m not doing it for him, but for me. To put words to my own truth, to acknowledge the complexity of love and forgiveness. It’s a step, perhaps a small one, but meaningful.
Thanks for reading this, for being here in this moment with me. Life is strange, isn’t it?