The final piece was about the year his daughter turned twelve.
The last year we lived in the same house. We celebrated your twelfth birthday at home. I don’t remember many details from that day anymore.
I still remember you sitting in front of the cake. Not long after that, you and Mom left. When I came home from work, your shoes were gone from the entryway. Inside, I realized some of Mom’s things were gone too.
There was a note on the table. I called her immediately.
“Where are you?”
“We’re not coming back for a while.”
“Where is she?”
“With me.”
“You can’t just take her.”
Mom went quiet.
“When were you ever home?”
“I was working.”
She said nothing after that. I had used those same words many times while we were still living together. Mom and I spoke on the phone after that. I didn’t speak to you.
As your thirteenth birthday got closer, Mom called me.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
“What?”
“I’m living with someone now.”
For a moment, I didn’t say anything.
“Is she there too?”
“Yes.”
“With him?”
“Yes.”
“She’s trying to get used to a new life.”
“So?”
“I need you to stop contacting us.”
“Her too?”
“Yes.”
“Letters too?”
“Don’t send them.”
After the call, the birthday letter I had written for you was still on my desk.
To You at Thirteen
Happy thirteenth birthday.
Is the new school okay?
Are you going every day?
Have you made friends? Is Mom doing okay? We stopped seeing each other so suddenly that there were a lot of things we never got to talk about. I’m still in the same house.
Your room is still the way you left it. If you ever want to come back, you can always come home. I’ll be here. Next time I see you, tell me about school.
Happy thirteenth birthday.
I didn’t send that letter. I didn’t even put it in an envelope. I slid it into my desk drawer.
The next birthday, I wrote another one. I thought respecting what Mom had asked was the best thing I could do for you. Every year on your birthday, another letter went into the drawer. I kept thinking I would see you someday.
I wanted to send every one of them. For twelve and a half years, I wanted to talk to you.
Below it was the letter to his daughter at twenty-five.
To You at Twenty-Five
Happy twenty-fifth birthday. I wonder if you’re working now.
Where are you, and what is your life like?
Maybe you’re married.
When I try to picture you at twenty-five, all I can see is the twelve-year-old I knew. I hope you stay healthy this year. I hope you’re happy. Happy twenty-fifth birthday.