A Letter to My Father I Never Sent

Three years ago, my father died suddenly. We hadn't spoken in five months after an argument about something I don't even remember anymore. Something small that felt enormous.

At his funeral, I sat in the back row, holding words I'd never get to say.

The Weight I Carried

For six months after he died, I woke up at 3am rehearsing conversations. Things I should have said. Things I wish he'd said. Apologies I never got to make. Forgiveness I never got to receive.

My therapist suggested writing him a letter. I tried. But it felt performative,like I was writing for an imaginary audience. So I put it away.

Then a friend sent me a link to misskissing.com.

The Atmosphere Chose Me

The platform asked me to choose an emotional atmosphere. I scrolled through: Peaceful. Melancholic. Hopeful. Then I saw: Bittersweet.

That was it. Not sadness alone. Not joy alone. Both.

The page turned this soft amber color. I started typing.

What I Wrote

"Dad,

Remember how you used to wake me up at 6am on Saturdays to go to the hardware store? I hated it. I wanted to sleep. You'd say 'The early bird gets the best lumber.' I never understood that until I was 32 and renovating my first house.

I picked the same stain you always used. I thought about calling you. Then I remembered we weren't speaking.

I'm grateful for those Saturday mornings. I'm grateful you taught me how to build things, how to fix things. How to measure twice and cut once.

I'm sorry we wasted five months being stubborn. I'm sorry I never called. I'm sorry you died thinking I was still angry.

I'm saying goodbye to the fight I can't remember. I'm saying goodbye to waiting for you to apologize first. I'm saying goodbye to the version of me who thought there'd always be more time.

I wish you peace, Dad. I wish I'd told you I loved you when it mattered.

• Your daughter, the one who still measures twice"

What Happened Next

I hit "Enshrine This Farewell."

The letter appeared on the platform, permanently. No name. No location. Just my words and the date.

Within an hour, someone gave it a Rippling Heart. Then another. Then another.

By the next morning: 47 hearts.

47 strangers had witnessed my goodbye.

No comments trying to fix it. No advice about how I "should" feel. No platitudes about him being "in a better place."

Just silent acknowledgment. We see this. We see you. You're not alone.

The Unexpected Healing

I didn't expect it to feel like closure. It wasn't complete closure - grief doesn't work that way. But it was... something.

The words existed somewhere other than my head now. They were real. They were witnessed. I didn't need my father to read them for them to matter.

I still miss him. I still sometimes wake up at 3am. But I'm not rehearsing conversations anymore.

The words are out there, permanent and unchangeable, exactly like memories.

And sometimes that's enough.

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My letter has 127 Rippling Hearts now. 127 people carrying their own goodbyes. 127 witnesses to love that persists after loss.

If you're carrying words you need to say → misskissing.com/write