I never thought I’d be the person to spill their guts online, but here I am, staring at my screen, my heart unraveling with every keystroke. It’s not easy to admit that you’ve lived a lie for years, but maybe, just maybe, this little corner of the internet can offer a semblance of understanding that I can’t seem to find elsewhere.
It all began with an old notebook. Nothing special about it, really—just a dull, faded green, its cover frayed at the edges, its pages yellowing with age. It had been tucked away in a forgotten drawer in my childhood home, buried beneath relics of my past life. I stumbled upon it during a routine visit to help my mom declutter.
Curiosity piqued, I opened it, expecting nothing more than the ramblings of my teenage mind. Instead, I was greeted by an unfamiliar penmanship. It was my father’s handwriting. The discovery was like a gentle whisper through the crevices of time, a voice I hadn’t heard in over a decade.
I should explain that my father was never a man of many words—not with me, at least. Our relationship was a series of quiet exchanges, unspoken connections, and missed opportunities. He passed away when I was just sixteen, leaving behind more questions than answers.
Page after page, I read his entries. They weren’t dated, but they charted an emotional map of my father’s life in a way I’d never imagined. He wrote about his dreams, his fears, and most poignantly, about me. Awkwardly, with a sincerity that made my heart ache, he chronicled moments from my childhood—stories I barely remembered.
Each entry was a piece of him I had never known, revealing how deeply he cared, how often he worried, and how profoundly he loved.
“I hope Daniel knows how proud I am of him,” read one entry. “He doesn’t hear it enough. I see so much of myself in him; maybe that’s why it’s hard.”
His words wrapped around me like a warm embrace from the past, peeling away layers of resentment I held against him for being emotionally distant. All this time, I assumed it was because he didn’t care enough when, in fact, it was the opposite.
With every page, a quiet realization washed over me: I had been so wrong. My father loved me imperfectly, perhaps, but deeply and earnestly. The truth was hidden in those pages, in the subtlety of his self-doubt and the rawness of his emotion.
I called my mother later that day, the notebook open before me. “Mom,” I hesitated, unsure how to explain the storm of emotions within me. “Did Dad ever talk about… how he felt about me?”
She paused, her breath a soft sigh over the phone. “He did, but not in the way you’d expect. He wrote about you all the time.”
So, she knew. She had kept his secret, perhaps thinking it was what he would have wanted, or maybe not realizing how much I needed to hear it.
“Why didn’t you ever show me?” My voice wavered.
“It was his decision, sweetheart. He always said he’d find the right moment to share them with you, but…” Her voice trailed off, the finality of her words hanging in the silence.
And that was it. The right moment had come and gone without any of us knowing it.
In the weeks that followed, I took the time to read through every word, savor every sentence as if they were the last remnants of my father’s soul. Each entry was a lesson in love, a quiet reminder that understanding sometimes comes not from grand gestures, but through the whispered truths nestled in the ordinary.
Discovering those pages led me to a place of clarity and acceptance I hadn’t known I needed. I began to see myself through my father’s eyes, not as a reflection of his unspoken disappointments, but as the person he quietly cherished.
I suppose that’s why I’m writing this now, to let others know that sometimes the answers we seek are hidden in the last places we’d think to look—like an old notebook buried in a drawer or perhaps, within ourselves.
In sharing this, I’ve finally found some semblance of peace. A part of me believes that somewhere, somehow, my father knows I am writing this, and maybe it’s his way of finally saying all the things he never got the chance to tell me in life. Perhaps it’s my turn to tell him: Thank you.