I can’t decide if it would be worse if you were dead. If you couldn't see me instead of choosing not to. Sometimes, I  think it would be better if you were dead. Maybe it would hurt less, make everything just a little bit easier. But maybe I would miss you, or the thought of you at least, I mean, I don’t really have much to miss. All of the memories I have with you are invaded by the demons of our mistakes.
  
I’m three years old. There is a constant rumble of fighting in our tiny house. It’s never quiet.  I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out, even so young I was empty. Tiny hands hands gripped once welcoming bars, but now I was trapped. The once comforting animals now have burning red eyes, and they're yelling too.  It’s getting louder, it isn’t stopping. I cover my ears, I have to block out the sound. Then it was over, the once growing song ended with a loud bang, then it was quiet.

I’m  six now, an angel in the manger scene for the preschool. I kneeled down by the badly designed manger, hands clasped around each other, my white dress falling around me, staring down at the blank eyed baby Jesus. I prayed, telling God he could have all of my Christmas presents from Santa, my Barbies, everything, as long as he made sure you were there. I think Mommy heard me, when I saw her in the crowd her eyes were red and puffy and her lip was wobbling. I didn’t mean to make her sad. We cried together on the way home. Why do you hurt us like this?

I’m nine now. You were supposed to be here, at my dance recital, you were even supposed to do a dance with me. But you didn’t, you didn’t even show up. That was the year I quit dance. Obviously, I wasn’t good enough if you wouldn’t even come see me.  I was nine, hating myself for something you’d done. I shouldn’t of been crying because you weren’t there, I should've known.

I’m ten years old. I haven’t seen you in four years. It was my first band concert. You promised you’d come, and you did. Maybe it was because it was my birthday and you felt obligated, or maybe you were actually trying. You bought me flowers and a card. I thought you’d actually changed, how naive. After that night, I didn’t hear from you for almost a year.  Kind of pathetic isn’t it?

I’m twelve now, you came to watch me at semi-state with the marching band. I hugged you, then you left, you always left. I guess I wasn’t that important to you afterall. But I don’t cry, my lip doesn’t quiver, my chest doesn’t tighten, I don’t feel like I’m under water and the surface keeps getting further out of reach. But at the same time everything keep getting further away. I feel numb, empty, and you did it to me. You did this to me, you made me grow up too quickly, you made me aware of the fact we often got close to losing our house. You made me this way.  A hard shell, unbreakable, walls unclimbable, unable to reach the broken shards of a girl inside. How does that make you feel? 

I’m thirteen now. We don’t speak and I never see you. You’re just a name. A ghost in my life. I don’t mind, or I pretend not to at least. Neither of us try anymore, it was a one sided fight and I was tired of losing. Don’t worry though, I got the message. But there are still words unsaid, and what better way to say them then in a letter I’ll never send. You’re the one who made me how I am. You’re the one who left me, don’t you dare try and blame it on me. Not when you wake up every morning and get in your truck, adding up miles on roads that don’t lead to me. How could you forget me so easily? I’m thirteen years old. I have ambitions, and dreams, and sometimes, I mess up. Sometimes I can’t  pull myself out of bed. But I’m still your daughter. I’m still that little girl wrapped in a pink blanket you held at the hospital. You loved me then, why not now? What changed?

I’m not angry, not anymore. I’m not sad, I don’t resent you. I want to know why you made me into this. Why you made me fear love, resent affection, hide from light. Why you decided to quit caring, made me another welfare case, another fatherless face. I want to know why you just stopped, caring, trying. But most of all, I want to know why you broke me. Why you were the one to rip me apart like a monster, instead of being the one to put me back together. I want to know why you don’t support me, why you don’t call, why you don’t care. I’m thirteen years old, I lost my dad a long time ago, and I’m not sure that I want him back.