Dear Man Who Looks like Me,
Or, I
guess it would be the other way around: I look like you. But first, let me
assure you that I am nothing close to what you are. Now, please, don’t take
offense to that. It honestly would just be a waste of a perfect thought that could have been spent
reminiscing about the night you had spent with my mother that ended in a
disaster, but still had a pretty good outcome (if I do say so myself).
Before
I go on, let me assure you that I want nothing what-so-ever from you. Okay, I
admit, that was a partial lie. I do want a couple of things (and they aren’t
much), but we’ll get to those eventually.
Perhaps
this is the part where I introduce myself. I give you my name, my age, the
color of my eyes and mention my favorite color. But anyone who knows any of those
things about me actually deserves to know because they have served as a very
important figure in my life. And I apologize, but I personally feel that you
don’t deserve any of that. Sure, my whole existence is due to a little mistake
you made one night, but you are nothing close to being any sort of figure in my
life.
I’ve
seen exactly two pictures of you in my life. The first one I found on an
inactive social media account. You were smiling, and dressed head-to-toe in
cameo. I couldn’t see your eyes behind your cheap sunglasses, but I could see
your smile. We have the same dimple on the bottom right corner of our mouths
when we grin. If I recall, in the picture you were holding up a fish you must
have caught just a few moments before. It was huge, and you seemed proud. Maybe
that look you had-one of pride and joyfulness-would have been the look you
would have given me when I won my first basketball game, or sang my first solo
and totally nailed it. Maybe.
The
second picture wasn’t as flattering as the first. This one I came across when I
typed your name in a local Google search. You were frowning, staring off into
the unknown space behind the camera. Maybe the man, or woman, taking the
picture was hassling you or treating you inhumanely. Maybe you deserved to be
treated that way? I wouldn’t know. I just know that the orange jumpsuit made
your face look like it had aged twenty years, and you looked sick. Or, maybe,
that’s just how someone might look after being arrested for statutory rape
charges. But the information that came along with that mug shot led me to your
last known address. So I’m not going to complain too much about how you looked.
Now,
I’m not entirely sure if this house your mug shot led me to was actually yours
once upon a time. Hey, you could live there right now and I wouldn’t know it. Sure,
I’ve driven by on that run down road once or twice (if I’m being honest, it’s
been four), but I’m not the type of person to go and knock on a door of a
random stranger that has gone to jail for molesting girls like me. I’m not
stupid. But I did slow down long enough to notice the little wishing well with
overgrown vines circling it, that sits in the front yard of your(?) run down
home. I saw the vehicles covered with car tarps on the side, and noticed how
you seriously lack in the “yard work” expertise. Funny thing is: mom would have
done wonders with that run down garden. She always does.
I don’t
want you to think that your daughter has come running to you because she wants
to know who you are, and because she wants to have you as a part of her life.
If for a second you thought that was what I wanted, you were seriously
mistaken. I am not your daughter, and I do not want you to be any more a part
of my life than you have already been. I ask one thing that will take some
effort, but due to your eighteen year disappearing act, I feel isn’t
impossible.
I’m old
enough to know what I want to do with my life, and, even more importantly, what
I don’t want to do with it. I know
that one day, I would like to graduate from a University and go into the field
of my choice. I know that one day, I would like to marry the man I love in a
way I view as the right way. I know that one day, I would like to have my own
child(ren) and raise them in a way that my husband and I both see fit. But my whole life, I never felt secure in the
idea of bringing in children to this world because there is a half of me that I
don’t know about. Not that I need to go on some sort of wild adventure and
“find myself”. That’s not exactly what I’m talking about. What I’m trying to
say, is that maybe there was a unknown genetic reason as to why I broke my arms
a few more times than normal when I was younger. Perhaps some sort of health
problem runs in your family that I
have inherited, or maybe it skipped me and my own children could have it one
day. I’m sure there are so many other ways I could go about asking a total
stranger for medical records, other than this. But if you actually knew me, this whole thing wouldn’t
surprise you.
You’ve been
absent for eighteen years and counting, so I ask you this one thing with hope
that you will, indeed, follow through. I’m not asking you to come play a part
in my life, to make up for eighteen years; I don’t want money, or memories.
Although, I won’t lie and say that medical records are the only thing I want from
you. But they are the only things that I need,
and are the only things that I am asking.
I’m not asking you to make up for eighteen years of missing memories. I’m not
asking you to pay my way to college. I’m a big girl and I have never needed to lean on “Daddy” for
support.
Personally,
I feel like I’ve taken up more than enough of your time just by writing this
letter and you possibly reading this. I don’t even know if you’re still alive
to read the papers anymore. Maybe you’re still locked up somewhere? I don’t
know. This whole idea of mine to write you a letter and send it into the local
newspapers was really just a way to get an ‘A’ in my Creative Writing class
(imagine that: writing you is somehow creative). But, if somehow this letter
did reach you-or even one of your family members-and knew it was about you,
maybe…I don’t really know. Maybe I could get those medical records from you or
not, maybe I could find out if you are still living or not, maybe I could see
if I get the color of my eyes from you.
There
are so many possibilities that come from taking a chance, and even more that
come from the art of the written word. Eighteen years you’ve been gone, and I
will always keep counting. Not counting down to the day where you are a part of
my life, not counting down at all. But I will always keep counting. Because, whether we like it or not, we are a
part of each other. And we always will be.
Sincerely,
The
Girl Who Looks like You
PS:
My favorite color is white.
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