by Nathan Perrin
Dear Dad,
I identified your body this morning.
It was charred, burnt to a crisp.
The police said it wasn’t quite a meth lab explosion but close enough. Last time I saw
you, I think I was fifteen or sixteen. I’m not sure.
You walked out on us when I was so young. I wondered if you ever thought of me. I used to think my face would come to mind in your last moments, and you would regret not being present for me. But now I know all you thought about was the fumes and flames and the other shit that goes with meth lab “explosions.”
You robbed me of even that.
My therapist tells me that I need to write this for closure. Same with my sponsor. He
called it “living amends.” It feels fucking futile. I’m going to be returning a lot to this letter over the next few weeks to make sure all the shit’s out. I’m done being in pain.
I guess the first thing I want to tell you is that you missed out on a beautiful grandson and daughter-in-law.
My kid’s eyes look like mom’s, and she met him once before she died. His name’s Zach. When mom went, I was holding her hand. She apologized to me, told me to be different to my own kid. I said I would. Then she hummed hymns as she died.
I sometimes go to church now to remember her. I have to believe in some kinda Higher Power to work the Steps. Christianity is the closest thing I can figure, but me and God got a lot of shit to work out. I also don’t want to be one of those January 6th assholes either.
You apparently used to be religious too. What the hell happened? Was life not worth it? Was I not worth it?
I hugged mom a lot when she cried after you left. I wonder if you knew that.
I wonder a lot of things these days. But mainly I wonder why you threw so much away.
I got an inheritance from you today.
Well, sort of.
It’s the land the burnt house is on.
It’s in rural Illinois – close to Missouri.
When I drove out there, there was nothing other than the ashes and a broken down
farmhouse. There were a lot of guns in the barn apparently. The cops told me if I found anything to immediately report it and hand it to them – like drugs or anything like that. They searched the place inside and out, but they could never be too sure.
I could see a sense of relief on their faces as they talked. Apparently you were one of the major dealers in the area. I could see in their eyes that their lives became easier with your death. It was a lot to process at once.
I’m not sure what to do with it.
When I drove down to identify your body, I passed through the town you lived in. It was small, undeveloped. Used to be a Norman Rockwell painting, but now it’s struggling. They say where I live in Chicago there is a lot of poverty. I invite those same people to come see this.
I stopped briefly at a gas station to get some things.
Overheard a conversation behind me.
“We’re just forgotten out here,” one guy said.
I caught a brief glimpse of who said that – it was an older man, intense eyes. I felt bad for him. I wonder if he knew you weren’t forgotten – that you were hiding from cops, from us. But maybe you felt the same way.
I have no idea what to do with this land.
When I was a kid, all I fantasized about was getting away from you and the house. I hid in my room crying as you came home and used. All I wanted was to leave. I’m not sure you would’ve noticed if I was there or not.
I woke up this morning and drank coffee with my wife, Kay. I’m not sure you would’ve
liked her. She doesn’t take shit. Therapist, knows how to set boundaries.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“Nothing in particular,” I replied.
“Remember what your sponsor said,” she put her hand on mine. “You need to open up more.”
I smiled, kissed her hand.
“I know,” I said. “It’s really hard right now is all. Don’t know what I feel.”
“I’m here for you.”
That’s how most of our conversations are these days. You’ve gotten me into a fucking mess in more ways than one. While I never became an addict, I ended up joining a 12-step group to work on my trauma. They have a group for everything.
You used to tell mom and me that AA really stood for Assholes Anonymous. We laughed about it. I now know you were avoiding accountability. When I sit in those rooms and hear people’s stories, my heart skips a beat thinking that you could’ve gotten the help you needed. It feels like you’re there with each person who speaks, except you never gave me the happy ending I deserved like they do. I used to describe you like a ghost, but it’s more literal now that you’re gone.
I’m a lawyer now.
You didn’t come to my graduation or anything. Not that I expected you to.
But mom was proud of me. She hugged me, said she cheered for me the whole time. She said something like… “I’ve been praying for this day.”
Prayer. It eludes me. But, like you, I feel this sense that her prayers follow me. Not sure how to explain it. Maybe some energy, maybe that thought of feeling good.
My clients are mostly rich people who got caught having too much of a good time. You were never like that. I can’t remember a time when we weren’t in poverty because of the shit you did. Mom said it wasn’t always like that. You were once a good man who got caught up in the
wrong things.
“You can’t be mad at someone for having a sickness,” she would say.
I disagreed then. I disagree today.
You robbed me of a healthier life.
How could you do that to a kid?
How could you even live with yourself?
You’ll never be able to answer these questions.
I went to church today. Reminds me of the times mom brought me and held me while we sang hymns. I sat in the pews, absorbed it.
A memory popped up that I didn’t want there.
Do you remember when you took me to the movies?
It’s one of the few good memories I have of you. I woke up to you cooking breakfast,
cocky smile on your face. I skipped school and spent time with you. It was a good day.
I’m not sure why that wasn’t enough for you to change.
The pastor preached something about forgiveness, how God is a loving father.
Couldn’t help but think of Brad Pitt in Fight Club.
You know that line?
“Our fathers were models for God. If our dads bailed, what does that tell you about
God?”
I don’t know how to connect to my spirituality. It’s because of you.
I don’t know how to heal and believe if all I think of is you.
I can’t get that good day out of my mind.
It haunts me. I don’t want it there. I want to hate you.
You fucked up my whole life.
Why did you do that?
Why did I deserve it?
Kay and I took a long walk this morning.
Snow was falling a bit. It’s Christmastime now. I used to hate the holidays.
I would go to school and see what other kids got. I think one time you gave me a gift. A playstation. Plugged it in, didn’t work.
“What are you thinking?” Kay asked.
“A lot of things,” I answered.
“Are you hurting?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay. I’m here for you.”
That’s the way a lot of our conversations go.
I visited the remains today.
Stood quietly in the snow looking around.
I remember the house somewhat.
“What do you want from me?” I whispered. “Why do you keep bringing this memory
up?”
I asked this out loud. Don’t think I believe in ghosts.
But maybe it’s worth a shot.
I looked at the area of the house that was my bedroom. It was where I used to pray and cry and curse silently when you were high.
Tears fell down my face.
Why weren’t you there for me?
As I turned around, I felt this inner voice ask me something. It was like me as a kid.
“Did we make it out?” he asked.
I turned back around. I could almost see him standing in the remains of where my
bedroom used to be. He wore that stupid Star Wars shirt that I picked up from Goodwill.
“Yeah,” I said. “We made it out.”
“Does dad get better?”
I sniffled and sighed.
“No,” I answered. “Dad doesn’t get better. I’m sorry.”
“I wish things could get better. That’s all I want.”
“I know. Things will get better though. I promise you.”
“Will I be safe?”
“Yes. You will be safe. You’ll have a family of your own. You’ll have a son, a wife. Maybe more.”
“Do you love him better than dad did?”
“I think so. I’m trying my best.”
“Do you think dad cares?”
Memories of the good day flooded my mind.
“I think he does,” I said. “I think he was really, really sick. It’s no excuse for the hell
you’re going through. But it helps knowing that it’s not your fault.”
“Do we get happier?”
I paused, “I guess I’m still waiting for that to happen.”
“What’s the point of surviving if we can’t enjoy our new life? We’re going to let dad’s sickness take that from us?”
“You’re right. You always were a smart kid. Resilient kid. I’ll try to be happier.”
“Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
“Will life really get easier?”
“Yes.”
“Am I loved?”
“You’ve always been loved. You just don’t know how, or when, to see it. But you will.
Mom will be there.”
“I wish I could believe all of that. It sounds too good to be true.”
“Some days I feel the same way, and I’m still living it.”
I sat on the bed, watched Kay sleep.
I kissed her on the cheek.
She opened her eyes and stared at me.
“How are you feeling?” she whispered.
“Lighter,” I answered. “That’s all I can say.”
She brushed my face, “I’m glad.”
“I need to see Zach. Is he awake?”
“He just went to bed.”
“Doesn’t matter to me.”
When I walked into Zach’s room, I grabbed a chair and sat next to his bed. I brushed his hair back. He opened his eyes.
“Hey daddy,” he said.
“Hey kiddo,” I replied.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
He touched my hand, “I’m really glad you’re my dad.”
I smiled, “Thanks kiddo. Do you want to hang out tomorrow?”
“I have school.”
“We’ll just forget about it for the day. I want to spend time with you. Is that okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. We’ll do whatever you want.”
Zach and I spent the next day walking around town. We went to the movies, to see
Christmas lights. When we walked by church, he pointed at the cross and said: “God really loves us. I don’t get it. I can’t even imagine it.”
“I can’t imagine either,” I said. “One day, I think I’ll get it.”
“Do we have to get it?”
“No. I think it’s like a blanket. You stay warm and cozy. You feel safe, hidden. Like
there’s a secret world maybe.”
I realized there was more of God in my childhood bedroom closet than there was in my dad. And maybe that’s enough for me to understand. It’s good enough for twelve-step. Checked with my sponsor and everything.
I took Zach out on a good day because if I ever fuck up as a dad, at least he’ll have that one memory of us together – and hopefully many more good days will come. He’ll know there was a piece of me that loved him, in spite of my flaws and shortcomings and whatever the hell is around the corner. In that playtime we had together, he smiled at me with the warmest smile I’ve ever seen.
He gave me another reason to keep fighting and heal.
I’ll still be around. I know I will heal. I know I will give Zach the opportunities you never
gave me.
When I begin to think of you, I’m filled with more sadness than anger. I look at the
relationship I have with Kay and Zach, and try to think of reasons why I would hurt them. Then I realize that you must’ve been really sick and broken to do that. It’s not normal.
I don’t know what happened to you to make you the way you were. I never got the full story. All four grandparents died. Mom’s dead. And now you’re gone. You and mom never had more kids.
But maybe, in some mysterious way, it’s supposed to be like that. Maybe I’m hitting the point where I need to look forward more than I do backward.
So I guess this is where I say goodbye to you, dad. We’ll never have that chance to
reconcile or have another good day. And that’s okay. I know how broken you were. You could’ve changed but you didn’t. It wasn’t my fault. It’s not on me to make sense of it.
Thank you for that one good day. You didn’t know it at the time, but it would lead me to see you as the flawed, whole human being that you were. You hurt so many people, but even someone like you was capable of love.
That gives me hope.
I guess that means I forgive you.
At meetings, we say some sort of serenity prayer or say the Lord’s Prayer to close things out. I don’t want to close things out, because I think I’ll meet you again somehow.
I think when you died, you were so surrounded by love that all the narcissism and bullshit burned off – and you somehow finally got it – that love wasn’t about you, that family wasn’t something you hurt and ignore. I like to think you get it now and somehow you watch me from a distance.
I hope it’s something like that.
But even if I don’t see you, know in my heart of hearts I have chosen to let go of this pain and forgive you. It’s not a complete and forever thing yet. It’s a choice I have to make every morning. But I know someday I’ll wake up and the hurt will be entirely gone.
And for now, that’s the best I can do.
God will fill in the rest.
Love,
Mikey
Nathan Perrin (he/him/his) is a writer and Anabaptist pastor in Chicagoland. He holds an MA in Quaker Studies, and is a doctoral student studying Christian Community Development at Northern Seminary. His doctorate work centers on creating a writing program for nonprofits and churches to use to help under-resourced communities process trauma. His work has been published in the Dillydoun Review, Bangalore Review, Collateral Journal, Esoterica Magazine, etc. His forthcoming novella Memories of Green Rivers will be released in winter 2025 by Running Wild Press. He is also a screenwriter for an unannounced indie comedy series. For more information, visit www.nathanperrinwriter.com