Mom says she has hope for me. She sees it. I don’t know where, but she tells me its there. Mom says she sees it in my music, my writing, my everything. But she hasn't seen my best writing. She hasn't heard my best music. She doesn’t know everything.

I want to know what you think. I want to know if you think my writing is good, if my music is good? If I am good? I am curious to see if you actually think I can do great things. Afterall, I am you. Just younger, smaller, dumber, and a girl. I am your daughter. I yearn for your praise and approval because you are guarded. There are iron walls around your emotions and rations on your praise. I want it. I need it, I have to have it. I have an addiction for something I have never tasted. I have never heard “I am proud of you, M”. Not once that I can remember. And if you have said it before, I strongly doubt that I would have forgotten a moment where you were proud of me.

I write essays for you. I write poetry for you. I play music for you. I sing for you. I draw for you. I do everything for you, whether you know it or not. I do everything hoping that you will take notice. That you may even say “I'm proud”. That’s what I wish for every birthday, every 11:11 on the clock. I try to do my best at everything to make you proud.

Her approval and praise means the world to me also. Never think that it doesn't. The catch is, yours is harder to earn.

You stand three feet away from me, staring out the door, as I write this about you. You’ll never know that I wrote this just now.

Here I sit, staring at you, Father.