Dear Daddy

When I was little, my father would call me 'his little girl' or 'Annabelle'. I would always call him 'Daddy'.

Even when I was a little girl, I absolutely loved to write. I wrote about what happened to me that day, I wrote what I dreamed about that night, I even wrote about what my dog might have been thinking about. That was when I was about five years old.

My father never really believed much in my writing skills. He didn't approve that I wanted to be a writer or a photographer rather then a doctor or a nurse. Of course what he thought mattered to me, so I decided that I would be what my father wanted and not what I wanted to be. Soon, I stopped writing completely. I threw away my camera and started successing more then I usually did at school. My mother and father were happy, thats all that mattered. Right?

By the time I was seventeen, I was a straight A student. My father had stopped calling me 'his little girl' and 'Annabelle' and would just call me 'Anna', so I stopped calling him 'Daddy'. I was happy,though, or at least I thought I was. But then one day, I came across an old notebook of mine when I was searching for clothes. All the other ones had been burned, so i wondered what this one was doing here. On the cover of the red spiral notebook read "My Life, My Family, My Dream." I opened the old book and began to read. That book brought back so many memories. It was the first 'book' I'd ever actually finished. In it there were stories about my friends and my family, my dreams, a total story on how peanut butter went with jelly. But most importantly, there was a note to my father. We had just had another fight about my future, at age fourteen. It was the year I completely stopped writing.

"Dear Daddy,
I love you. I really really love you. I appreciate everything you have done for me, everything you have taught me. Your one of the very reasons I am who I am today. You want me to go places with my life, and I appreciate that, too. But I don't want to be a doctor or a nurse or a surgeon. I want to do what i do best. I want to write. Writing is my passion, and I want to become one of the greatest authors this world has every known. I want to be like Jack London or Mark Twain. I don't want to do what you want me to do. I want to do what I want to do. And I would really appreciate it if you were behind me on my choices. I love you, daddy.

Love,
Anna"

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I quickly blinked them away. I had more sense when I was fourteen then i do now. Why was I doing what my father wanted? Hes not me, he is not the one living my life. I am.

So, that brings me to where I am now. I majored in Literature when I attened college. My father didn't agree with it of course, and was very angry. Angry enough that he hasn't talked to me for a few years. But today, I find myself driving up the long gravel driveway I once called home, a book in the passenger seat of my yellow and black striped Camero. I knew he was home, and so was my mom. Mom had told me so. She stayed in touch with me, though my father hadn't.

As I walked up those steps and rang the doorbell, all the thoughts in my mind came down to one single sentence.

"I hope he takes it."

My father answered the door, and the look on his face made it clear that he was suprised to see me. He hadn't aged much. His dark hair was graying, but his green eyes were still hard and cold. He hadn't grown any taller then 6'0 and he hadn't gained any weight. He was still the hard, stubborn father I had always had. Which scared me the more I thought it over. "Anna? What the hell are you doing here? Did you finally come to your senses?" he asked in a thrilled rush, until he saw the book in my hands. His suprised look turned grim and he wouldn't meet my eyes. "No. I'm still writing. I came to give you this." I said softly, refraining from getting into yet another fight with my father. I held the book out, wishing he would take it. Hesitantly, he reached his hand out and took the book from my hands and said "Goodbye Anna." And with that, he slammed the door in my face. I guess, he hadn't changed after all. With tears streaming down my face, I got into my car and sped down the driveway like a Florida bound hurricane.

The book I had given to him was about him, in fact. It was about a girl who loved to write, but her father had not approved. She had wrote a letter, just as I had. And her name was Belle. It was entitled "Dear Daddy."

About ten days later, I recieved a phone call. It was my father. "I am so sorry Annabelle, I am so so sorry." he sobbed over the telephone speaker. The grown man's tears practically flowed through the phone lines to me. Tears were streaming down my face as he apologized and I forgave and he forgave as I apologized. From that day on, I wrote seven more books. And each time I knew who the first buyer of each book was. My daddy.





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