Dear Father,
Although I wasn’t willing to admit, deep down, I knew that this day would come. The day I tell my father that I was the one who packed his things, put them in front of the main entrance, and changed the locks to the house. It was me, Dad. I wish it were not. But I did all of that.
I’ve had this image of you in my mind as your daughter. I felt proud to have you as a father. Someone so brave, smart, honest, someone with integrity. I felt so lucky to have a dad who taught me how to be a good person, who reminded me of the importance of the good qualities I should have every day. When I was being punished for not living up to those standards, I concluded that I was the one who was wrong and I should better myself.
The pride lasted until the day someone told me, “Your father is not as brave as you think he is.” Little did I know this exact sentence would be the hammer to finalise my crumbling reality.
How could that be, Dad? You told me all about your stories in the army, you were so brave there. What happened?
People say that every little girl’s first love is their father. I have to admit, I have never wanted someone like you as a lover. I’ve always felt scared to find someone like you, or even worse, become like you. I somehow found consolation in believing that you have a virtuous personality. But after learning about your affairs and all the other things, it was no surprise that we got our furniture confiscated by the bank twice, and that we lost everything. I could feel something was wrong growing up, I noticed things about you. I chose to turn a blind eye. I did not want to think. I did not want to see.
I was the one who kicked you out of the house. A young woman kicked her old father out of their family home just like that. How cold-hearted she could be to have done this? Wasn’t this one of the worst sins in your holy book, Dad? Now you know who did it. It was not Mom. It was me. Maybe I am already as bad as you are.
After months of staying away, I am trying to forgive you and move on. See, you’re old. You died once in my eyes, but I am not ready to lose my father for good yet.
I am ashamed, disgusted, and I still love you as your daughter.
But still, I cannot help but think, what if I wake up one day and decide that my life is not enough for me? What if one day my husband and my kids become something I avoid going to, and every time I’m around, I start taking my anger out on them? What if they have to carry the weight of being exposed to me? What if I could never be satisfied with my life, like you never were?
I wake up every day and fear that today could be the day I pay for your sins. Will God make it just for the many women you hurt by punishing your daughters?
I know you are aware of what you’ve done. Even though you refuse to accept, your mind knows, your heart feels. That is why you’re sick now. And your death will only matter to me, my sister and your dogs. Are you scared? Is your conscious eating your heart and killing you each day? Because mine does, Dad. I am scared. I am terrified. Hurt. Full of remorse.
I’ve accepted that I will not be free of this pain for many years to come, just like how I was enslaved by it for many years that passed. I will find the strength to be myself without the fear of aligning with your shadow. One day. Some day. Hopefully.
Love,
Your Daughter.
The Unsent Letters 
What do you think?