My 7-year-old daughter came home in tears.
Her teacher told her, “Your dad must regret having you!” I was livid.
I went straight to talk to the teacher.
She looked at me calmly and said, “Have you checked your daughter’s bag?”
I froze when she pulled out a crumpled note.
It was written in my handwriting—messy and rushed—but there was no doubt it was mine.
“Some days I wish I never had her. I can’t do this anymore.”
It felt like the wind was knocked out of me.
The teacher didn’t yell or judge. She just said, “I thought you should know this was in her lunchbox today. She read it aloud to the class.”
I couldn’t find words. My mouth went dry. I didn’t remember writing it—but standing there, a dull ache began in my chest, guilt surfacing from somewhere I’d buried deep.
Her voice softened. “Kids notice more than we realize.”
That note… I’d written it weeks ago during a breakdown. After double shifts, struggling with bills, my car breaking down, and hearing my ex-wife might move away with her new partner—I was exhausted, angry, and lonely.
I scribbled it on the back of an envelope one night after putting Maren to bed. I never meant anyone to see it. Especially not her.
Then it hit me—the envelope had been on the kitchen counter. She must’ve grabbed it by accident while packing her lunch. Her little hands always trying to help.
That night, I went home and watched her sleep—arms stretched out like a starfish, clutching her favorite stuffed rabbit.
Those harsh words didn’t represent how I truly felt. Not even close.
I love her more than anything. But I hadn’t been showing it lately.
The next day, I asked for a meeting with Maren, the teacher, and the school counselor.
Maren was quiet, staring at her shoes. I knelt beside her.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That note wasn’t for you. I wrote it when I was really tired and lost. It wasn’t about you—it was about me struggling to be the dad you deserve.”
She looked up, eyes shiny. “Do you really wish you didn’t have me?”
That broke me—right there in that small school office, in front of strangers.
“No. Never. Not even for a second. 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. For us.”
Fixing things took more than words.
I started therapy. Took a break from my second job to manage stress. I swallowed my pride and asked my sister for help with after-school pickups. She was happy to help.
And Maren… she began to draw again. Sing again. She started leaving me notes in my lunchbox like:
“You got this, Dad!”
“I love you even if your socks don’t match.”
“Don’t be sad today, okay?”
I keep those notes in my wallet now.
A few weeks later, I picked her up and Mrs. Linton stopped me.
“She told the class today that her dad is her hero,” she said. “She even made a card.”
The card was a crooked little drawing of me with a cape, holding her hand. Below, she wrote:
“My dad makes mistakes. But he always tries again.”
Life isn’t perfect yet.
Some days we’re late. I burn dinner. The dog pees on the rug.
But I don’t feel broken anymore. I feel human. And loved.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that kids don’t need perfect parents. They need us to be honest, present, and willing to keep trying.
Even when it’s messy. Especially then.
So if you’re overwhelmed, please hear this:
You’re not alone. It’s okay to ask for help. Your child doesn’t need a perfect you—they need you, doing your best.