I’d like to see you. I know you’ve been to see Pamela, and maybe you’ve gotten whatever you need from her. I have to presume that you don’t want to see me. That you don’t need to, and maybe it’s easier, just facing one of us, and she is your mother, so I understand that. But I would like to see you. I would very much like to see you.

I’ve hesitated to write and say that because I know you’re going through so much, and you don’t need this on top of it, and if you’ve decided not to see me, that’s your choice and I will respect it, but I know Pamela made her plea in the papers, and so there is the chance that you haven’t come because you aren’t sure I want to see you, so I have to speak up and say yes. Unreservedly yes. I want to see you.

I promise I will make this visit as easy on you as possible. It can be as short as you need it to be, and if it is not repeated, I’ll understand that. I just want to see you.

I know I said I wouldn’t list all the things I’m sorry for, but I need to say one, before I sign off. The one thing I am most sorry for.

I am sorry for leaving you. I told you so many times that I never would, and then I did, and whether it was by choice or not doesn’t matter. I made a promise and I broke it, and I am so, so sorry.

Love always, Todd

Todd. Not “your father.” Not Dad. Like the opening, so careful and so respectful. It didn’t matter. I read that letter and I heard his voice and I didn’t see “Todd” at the end. I saw the first words I’d ever learned to read, on a surprise gift he’d given me. To Eden. Love always, Daddy.

I folded the letter and started to cry.