My 7-year-old daughter came home crying because her teacher said, “Your dad must regret having you!” I was furious and went straight to confront the teacher.
She calmly showed me a crumpled note from my daughter’s lunchbox—written in my own handwriting:
“Some days I wish I never had her. I can’t do this anymore.”
I was stunned. I had no memory of writing it, but I recognized the handwriting. The teacher explained that my daughter had read it aloud in class.
That note was written during a breakdown weeks earlier—after double shifts, bills piling up, my car breaking down, and learning my ex-wife might move away with her new boyfriend. I was exhausted, angry, and overwhelmed.
I had scribbled it on the back of an envelope late one night after putting Maren to bed. I never meant for her to see it—she must have grabbed it by mistake while packing her lunch.
That night, watching her sleep peacefully with her stuffed rabbit, I realized those words didn’t reflect how I truly felt. I love her more than anything, but I hadn’t shown it well lately.
The next day, I asked for a meeting with Maren, her teacher, and the counselor. I knelt beside my daughter and said, “I’m sorry, baby. That note was about me struggling, not you. I love you so much.”
Tears filled her eyes as she asked, “Do you really wish you didn’t have me?”
I broke down and said, “No. Never. You’re the best thing in my life. I just forgot how to take care of myself, but I’m going to fix that. For you.”
Healing took time. I started therapy, took time off work, and asked my sister to help with school pickups.
Maren started drawing and singing again. She left me little notes in my lunch like, “You got this, Dad!” and “I love you even if your socks don’t match.” I keep those notes in my wallet.
Weeks later, her teacher told me Maren told the class, “My dad is my hero,” and gave her a card with a drawing of me in a cape holding her hand. Underneath, it said:
“My dad makes mistakes. But he always tries again.”
Life isn’t perfect—sometimes we’re late, or I burn dinner, or the dog makes a mess—but I don’t feel broken anymore. I feel human. Loved.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that kids don’t need perfect parents—they need honest, present, trying parents. Messy is okay. Trying is everything.
To any overwhelmed parent reading this: You’re not alone. It’s okay to ask for help. Your child doesn’t need perfect—you just need to keep trying.
If this touched you, please share it and remember every parent deserves a second chance.
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