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Description
There were two letters inside the envelope -- one for Holly, one for me.

Dear Holly,

I'm so sorry this happened. I want you to know--

I stopped reading; these words weren't meant for me. In fact, the letter addressed to me wasn't meant for me -- it was meant for me six years earlier. I felt stupid for even opening it, for opening the box. I felt dirty. Holly was only ten feet away, sleeping in the first real peace she'd known in months. What would she think if she saw me reading our father's letters? How would she feel to know I'd betrayed her like this?

I crawled out of bed again, gathered up all the envelopes that had spilled out onto the floor and returned them to their box, returned it to it's place in the closet, hidden in the corner, behind the luggage. With that first letter clenched in both hands, I made my way downstairs, put on my winter coat, and went outside. The street lights were bright enough that I could read comfortably on the front steps with little enough effort. Swallowing a lump of sick guilt in my throat, I opened the letter Dad had written me.

Dear Hannah,

How old are you, now that you're reading this? Ten? Twelve? Fifteen? It's been months since I've seen your face, and even longer since I've seen you smile, but you're still my daughter. I know you well enough that I know you won't read this letter for a long time. I know by the way you sound, when I hear you over the phone arguing with your Nana, even though you think I can't hear you. I just hope you're not reading this letter now, just to find another reason to hate me ... I deserve it, I know, but you already have enough reasons.

Don't worry, I'm not going to try and give you a reason to forgive me. If you've grown up to be anything like my mother, it's not going to work. But the truth is, I don't really know what kind of girl you've grown up to be. Are you going to smart and beautiful, like your mother was when she was young? I wish you could have known her the way I did, when we were in high school and so in love. Her smile could light up a room like the sun, and I can tell you that more than one boy's universe revolved around her.

But, I'm sorry, I'm sure you don't want to hear (or read, I guess) me talking about your mother. I guess it's too much to hope that she's recovered now ... my lawyer tells me that if someone doesn't wake up from a coma in the first month, it's only guesswork to know when they'll wake up, and it's usually later than sooner. Which means that she's likely still in the hospital, with all those stupid machines sucking away her life just to keep her alive. It's only a cold comfort to know that your Nana has enough money to keep her there for ... well, for as long as it takes. I made her promise that your mother would be taken care of, no matter how long it takes.

I'm rambling now, aren't I? I guess I just ... it doesn't matter to me when you're reading this, so long as you read it eventually. There's a part of me that can't stop writing, because I know, now, you're reading it, and how can I know if you're going to start reading the other letters I'm going to write you, once you come to the end of this one?

But I guess you're reading this because you're looking for answers. I'm sorry to tell you, though, but I don't know what answers you're looking for. Even if I did, are you old enough for me to tell you? I know you're going to think I'm patronizing you, but I'm not. It's like when I stopped you from reading the Bible at church a few years ago ... actually, it's one of Father Donnivan's little secret wisdoms. Answers don't just have questions, they have ages. It's why they don't teach kids about the birds and the bees until they hit puberty. But I'm getting off course again, I'm sorry.

I guess there's only one answer I can give you right now. I don't even know if it's one you're looking for, but here it is: I'm not going to give up on you. I know I've done some terrible things, and there's nothing I can say to excuse those things, but I still love you. I'm not going to call anymore, because I'm sure all it does is bring back painful memories, and I don't want to do that to you. At least with a letter, you can put it away and read this whenever you decide to. And like it or not (I'm sure you won't at the time, but I hope you'll understand by the time you read this) I'm going to keep writing you letters. Every month, if I can. I may not have much to say sometimes, but I never want the thought to cross your mind that I've forgotten about you.

And like I said, I'm not looking for your forgiveness. I'm not even looking for your understanding, yet. I just want you to know that I still love you, as much as I did the day you were born (or even more, if it's possible), and I'm never going to stop loving you, no matter how long I have to wait to see you again.

So, I guess that's it. All I can do now is hope you pick up another letter, because there's so much more I want to say to you. I just hope you'll listen.

Love,
Dad

P.S. No matter what happens, keep a stiff upper lip. Holly needs you to be strong for her. Even if she seems grown up now, whenever you read this, we both know that she still looks to you for her strength, and (if that incident at your first kindergarten class is anything to go by) I know you love her too much to let her down.

P.P.S. "A tree needs its roots to keep it strong and hale, but its greatest strength is its canopy, which shelters the innocent from the storm." That's one of Father Donnivan's little metaphors. I still don't really understand the whole thing myself, but hopefully it'll mean something to you.

Love (again),
Dad

Description
There were two letters inside the envelope -- one for Holly, one for me.

Dear Holly,

I'm so sorry this happened. I want you to know--

I stopped reading; these words weren't meant for me. In fact, the letter addressed to me wasn't meant for me -- it was meant for me six years earlier. I felt stupid for even opening it, for opening the box. I felt dirty. Holly was only ten feet away, sleeping in the first real peace she'd known in months. What would she think if she saw me reading our father's letters? How would she feel to know I'd betrayed her like this?

I crawled out of bed again, gathered up all the envelopes that had spilled out onto the floor and returned them to their box, returned it to it's place in the closet, hidden in the corner, behind the luggage. With that first letter clenched in both hands, I made my way downstairs, put on my winter coat, and went outside. The street lights were bright enough that I could read comfortably on the front steps with little enough effort. Swallowing a lump of sick guilt in my throat, I opened the letter Dad had written me.

Dear Hannah,

How old are you, now that you're reading this? Ten? Twelve? Fifteen? It's been months since I've seen your face, and even longer since I've seen you smile, but you're still my daughter. I know you well enough that I know you won't read this letter for a long time. I know by the way you sound, when I hear you over the phone arguing with your Nana, even though you think I can't hear you. I just hope you're not reading this letter now, just to find another reason to hate me ... I deserve it, I know, but you already have enough reasons.

Don't worry, I'm not going to try and give you a reason to forgive me. If you've grown up to be anything like my mother, it's not going to work. But the truth is, I don't really know what kind of girl you've grown up to be. Are you going to smart and beautiful, like your mother was when she was young? I wish you could have known her the way I did, when we were in high school and so in love. Her smile could light up a room like the sun, and I can tell you that more than one boy's universe revolved around her.

But, I'm sorry, I'm sure you don't want to hear (or read, I guess) me talking about your mother. I guess it's too much to hope that she's recovered now ... my lawyer tells me that if someone doesn't wake up from a coma in the first month, it's only guesswork to know when they'll wake up, and it's usually later than sooner. Which means that she's likely still in the hospital, with all those stupid machines sucking away her life just to keep her alive. It's only a cold comfort to know that your Nana has enough money to keep her there for ... well, for as long as it takes. I made her promise that your mother would be taken care of, no matter how long it takes.

I'm rambling now, aren't I? I guess I just ... it doesn't matter to me when you're reading this, so long as you read it eventually. There's a part of me that can't stop writing, because I know, now, you're reading it, and how can I know if you're going to start reading the other letters I'm going to write you, once you come to the end of this one?

But I guess you're reading this because you're looking for answers. I'm sorry to tell you, though, but I don't know what answers you're looking for. Even if I did, are you old enough for me to tell you? I know you're going to think I'm patronizing you, but I'm not. It's like when I stopped you from reading the Bible at church a few years ago ... actually, it's one of Father Donnivan's little secret wisdoms. Answers don't just have questions, they have ages. It's why they don't teach kids about the birds and the bees until they hit puberty. But I'm getting off course again, I'm sorry.

I guess there's only one answer I can give you right now. I don't even know if it's one you're looking for, but here it is: I'm not going to give up on you. I know I've done some terrible things, and there's nothing I can say to excuse those things, but I still love you. I'm not going to call anymore, because I'm sure all it does is bring back painful memories, and I don't want to do that to you. At least with a letter, you can put it away and read this whenever you decide to. And like it or not (I'm sure you won't at the time, but I hope you'll understand by the time you read this) I'm going to keep writing you letters. Every month, if I can. I may not have much to say sometimes, but I never want the thought to cross your mind that I've forgotten about you.

And like I said, I'm not looking for your forgiveness. I'm not even looking for your understanding, yet. I just want you to know that I still love you, as much as I did the day you were born (or even more, if it's possible), and I'm never going to stop loving you, no matter how long I have to wait to see you again.

So, I guess that's it. All I can do now is hope you pick up another letter, because there's so much more I want to say to you. I just hope you'll listen.

Love,
Dad

P.S. No matter what happens, keep a stiff upper lip. Holly needs you to be strong for her. Even if she seems grown up now, whenever you read this, we both know that she still looks to you for her strength, and (if that incident at your first kindergarten class is anything to go by) I know you love her too much to let her down.

P.P.S. "A tree needs its roots to keep it strong and hale, but its greatest strength is its canopy, which shelters the innocent from the storm." That's one of Father Donnivan's little metaphors. I still don't really understand the whole thing myself, but hopefully it'll mean something to you.

Love (again),
Dad