This letter was submitted by Claire [last name redacted by Letters We Never Sent, and as she requested, we ran this through Grammarly to correct basic sentence structure. As she says, it was initially in 2017 but never sent or given.
Summary:
This emotional letter is written by a daughter to her deceased father, reflecting on their distant yet poignant relationship. She reminisces about his old nickname, “The American Star,” and his talent behind the camera then describes the vivid memory of meeting him and his wife for the first time at the orphanage when she was 31⁄2 years old.
The father was not openly affectionate, but his photography revealed his pride and care for his young daughter. They shared happy memories in nature—him teaching her about plants while riding together on his bike. Yet a lingering uncertainty plagued their bond, perhaps stemming from her time in the orphanage.
At heart, the father was a solitary man who loved the outdoors despite needing regular jobs to get by. The daughter recognized she shared his independent spirit. Over time, distance grew between the father and daughter as her mother claimed primary caretaking of her daughter’s education. Her father longed for a different child, while her mother nurtured her intellect. Though Claire’s parents never divorced, her father grew distant.
Emigrating from France only strained their relationship further, though the daughter later returned for reconciliation as his health failed. Without many words, she felt their connection strengthen through small acts of caretaking during her visits. In his dementia, he poignantly remembered the joy of first adopting her. After his death at 93, sorting through his papers, the depth of his paternity emerged in a hidden note about his beloved “little daughter.”
Though frustrated by his emotional limitations in life, the daughter makes peace with his spirit in death, focusing on the goodness of his memories that she still carries with her. The letter closes with a universal message—not to wait for the end of life to forgive loved ones since time is precious and unpredictable for us all.
Hello! Although my letter is in English, I kept the original title--in French with the verbatim translation into English. This is the exact title I used on Father's Day 2017. dedicated to friends who are fathers. Yet, if you think it cannot be accepted with the French title, keep the English Title.
I just saw the first letter shared online and enjoyed it, but if you think mine is a different story, but also to a Dad, it should be kept until later. I trust your judgment, hoping I won't "chicken out" to resubmit it. Thank you for opening this site of memories to be shared and for your potential consideration.
Claire elaborated on this letter in a follow-up email to Letters We Never Sent after the post was published.
I did not wait until my father's health was failing to go back and visit him.
I flew to France every other year because of my small budget, more often when he requested it. But those visits until the latest ones were tough on me... 2 weeks of sadness and hidden tears and then back home. Indeed, as I mentioned, the latest visits when his health was failing were much more manageable. All the while, he was very independent and living in a Senior residence, not a miserable nursing home, financially supported by his health care.
They used to call you “The American Star,” with your good looks and hat “à la George Raft.” So few pictures of you remain: You were the eye behind the lens from 18 in the trenches of Northeastern France in World War I up to your mid-eighties. I remember the darkroom—more of a closet—next to my piano in the back “Don’t open the door, kid, when the light outside the door is red."
One day close to Christmas 1949 at the orphanage, you and your wife arrived in a “Woodie” car. I remember the doors and the wicker child chair anchored safely. “Remember the lady and the gentleman who came to see you once in a while? Say hello to your Mom and Dad:” I was three-and-a-half years old.
In the picture of that day—and one with Mom and me— You said: “You were so serious the first few days, and you did not say much, but you sure caught up.” Never a compliment. It wasn’t your style. Never an “I love you,” so it takes looking at those early photographs to see how much you did care: I was your favorite subject and soon smiling willingly, not yet self-conscious.
Trips to the woods were riding on the back of your bicycle. "See, those plants are called parakeets," you hung those exotic birds on a glass of water once we came home. Hiding behind a tree in the forest, yet not too long, not counting on the sheer despair it brought me: Still not sure whether you were with me to stay?
You were nature man through and through and indefatigable walker, ill at ease in any of the jobs you had to earn a living. You had your followers and admirers, yet the lone wolf in you prevailed. There is some of it in me, and it is not a matter of genetics!
You lost me to my Mom along the way: You were strangers under the same roof, and she claimed me. We still had Sunday rides and walks, yet we never got to know each other. Still, my life would have been different: She catered to my intellect while you longed for someone more like yourself.
The ocean and continent separating us after Maman’s death were small compared to the widening gap between us. I knew that despite your odd interest in modern architecture and construction seemingly out-of-sync with your love of nature, you would have been miserable in “the country of crazies,” as you called it.
You never quite forgave me for leaving my native land. Despite your humble origins, you still believed as the “higher-ups” of your country that “one must stay where one belongs.” That petrified birth rationale is one of the reasons why I prefer the New World to the Old One. And with such notions, it must have been uncomfortable knowing that my birth mother came from “those higher-ups.” (When I gave you some lip, you said, at times, "You think you're better than us?" it didn't make any sense then, it does now).
The nuns of the convent where my birth mother was sent during her pregnancy refused to give you that family name, and you only told one relative, not even your wife, about that secret search of yours. I learned about it after your death. What a waste! Things unsaid when I would never place those who “chose me” below those who abandoned me! Blood will never be thicker than water to me, though if I ever met my “antecedents,” I would be open to hearing them before casting judgment.
Isn’t it sad that we have to wait until at least one of two estranged or semi-estranged parties feel “the breath of Death” to try to mend fences? Especially since most humans choose to disregard the fact that the Great Equalizer can strike at any time, any age, any place. Today, not tomorrow, is the right time to be poised with kindness, not with rancor.
But we did mend fences—without much of any words—on your terms more than mine, and it doesn’t matter. Three trips to see you that last year, a distinct pleasure in seeing me, a reversal of roles as in “Driving Miss Daisy:” The child cutting the meat on the elderly’s plate—heart-breaking, yet bringing one closer than ever. And the last comatose day, lifting out of it somewhat, knowing I was there. You were clinging to life far more than I was at the time.
Back to your empty flat and finding a note—written when your beautiful calligraphy—even from someone with little formal education—started to show the trembling of your hands: “ Your dementia and old age brought back the memory crystal-clear, in a time-warp way: “Today we went to get our new little daughter.” Damn you, old man! I was so angry at you! And then the dream that night: I was sitting on your lap and you with the luminous smile you used to have long ago. You did have a good, long life, 93 springs, summers, and falls. You are a part of my life, not as a ghost but as a spirit endowed with the best of you I remember.
Claire [last name redacted by Letters We Never Sent] – on Father’s Day - June 19, 2017
All photos in “Letters We Never Sent Posts” are created by the Letters We Never Sent Team to illustrate the letters.
Thank you Jack, and kudos to the talented illustrators
exquisite... and the artwork: breathtaking!