“Dear Molly… well, today is a milestone: 18.”
Eighteen. The coveted number every teenager yearns for. The year of unsuccessful scratch offs, cheap cigarettes, late night drives, and college peeking its anxious head around the corner.
I trudged to the mailbox where the crisp, carefully sealed envelope waited for me, my name written in his neat print.
Eighteen. Unlike 14, 15, 16, or even 17, I was suddenly worthy of acknowledgement. Who knew it only took two simple numbers to make the stars align? Detached, malicious emails and bitter voicemails aside, I unexpectedly became his beloved daughter again at the age of 18- but only for 36 lines.
Honors English, age 15. Rushing through the crowded halls, leaping through the metal framed door, I could see the essay, stacked neatly on my desk before I fully entered the room. Covered in BIC’s finest crimson, the word ELABORATE glared above my double spaced paragraphs. High school curriculum, how do I explain myself after years of silence? Life without my dad made me feel more hollow than an empty book, littered with brief explanations for years of absence, desertion, and incredible confusion. But 18. I finally became worthy of a pearly white envelope, a new, garnished past, your black letters historically altering the nightmares I lived. A typed letter to rewrite my tattered pages. Dad, little do you know, the child you deemed "insignificant" became an author- renowned for writing her own story.
Eighteen. I don’t need your insight or lies. Hand-written, I am an essay, rich and full of evidence exploding with elaboration deep as an ocean- the explanations more developed than the photos you used to take of us as children, trapped in frames at the top of my closet.
Eighteen years, and three paragraphs too late, I received the most incredible birthday gift. As I cautiously entered adulthood, I expected to feel no different. However, through blurry eyes, Times New Roman font, and 36 lines of wasted printer ink, I can officially reciprocate the treasured word, typed at the bottom of your letter beside your unspoken name- love. Eighteen. With all the love in my heart and nothing but reverence, I can write the last paragraph, the one where my story ends… in forgiveness, and love. Dad, in a twisted way, you were right. Eighteen is a milestone, and even though you’re miles away, I can only hope that 18 long years from now, you will read this article and understand.
