Dear Dad,

This letter might never touch your fingertips, but I need you to know a few things.  It’s not your fault.  Please understand that, although this letter contains nearly 16 years’ worth of pain, I don’t hold anything against you.
First, I hope you’re doing well, wherever you are.  Is it raining?  The sky here is the pale blue of a misty storm at sea.  When I think of you, I feel the same way, bitter and uncertain like the raging waves of the salty depths.  How can I miss someone who doesn’t know I exist?  Why do I feel the need to meet a stranger?
I could shift this letter anywhere.  I could tell you about my writing and painting, the nasty bout of depression I had last year, or what it’s like growing up with such a hollow question.  However, no matter what words I tattoo onto the paper, I could never communicate how much this hurts.  Maybe it isn’t possible to miss someone you have never met, but a letter won’t solve these nameless feelings that are rooted deep within my heart. 

The biggest unanswered question I have is how you’ll react to me.  I’d give the world to be accepted as your daughter.  I think you would be proud of me, once I tell you of my life so far.  I hope on what happens after we have met, and that our first meeting won’t be our last.  Perhaps we’d be limited to one or two visits after, but that’s more than what I have now.  I’ll take whatever this situation allows. 

I want to feel welcome in your life, to meet my potential half siblings. If the thought of us connecting makes you uncomfortable, I understand; however, I am not.  I never will be. You’ll always be free to write, call, maybe even visit. 

There is always the possibility I’m writing these words to a dead man.  If that is true, then I’m sorry I could not find you in time.  But that won’t hinder me from meeting the other half of my genetics, no matter the cost or distance.  If my search ends at a headstone in some nameless cemetery, I will not be dismayed.  I’ll buy you flowers and keep you company till the sun sinks under the brim of the horizon.  

I’m not looking to redo my childhood with you included in it.  It’s more about finding closure.  The idea of you being a phantom of my past is upsetting.  No one can give me more of a lead than your name, which fills me with anxiety.  If the people initially involved cannot tell me much more than that, then I have reached a dead-end. 

Whenever in a crowd, I wonder if you are in the mass of people around me.  Any one of those faces could be yours.  I wonder what traits you gave me—mental, physical, and health-wise.  I can’t help but assume I got my artistic flare, from you.  Everyone else in my family lacks an artist’s persona. How much (or how little) of you is reflected in me? 

You are everywhere.  I see you in the lonely pines around my house, in the swollen clouds of summer thunderstorms.  When it snows, I think of all the Christmases we’ve missed together.  Is it possible to solidify smoke?  Will I one day see the invisible man? 

One day, you might leaf through a magazine, or scroll through your news feed, and stumble across these words.  That’s the painfully ironic part.  You will never know this letter is addressed to you. You could never write a response; however, part of me hopes you’ll feel some sort of familiarity and know that I’m yours. Maybe tears will swell in your eyes, maybe you’ll walk away before you even hear my voice. Whatever happens, I will be ready to face it bravely. 

With love,
Allie