"More than a stunning debut. It is the announcement of a bold new literary voice"
—Stephen Chbosky, author of The Perks of Being a Wallflower

On that Christmas morning many years ago, I had no idea what was going on. I remember Mama saying that you had been feeling bad lately and she really wanted you to go to a doctor. I remember putting all of my new toys into a trash sack so I could play with them on the way to the hospital. In the parking lot of the hospital, I remember Mama saying that you looked pale, and I asked her what it meant, and that was how I learned the meaning of the word. I remember seeing all the Christmas decorations inside, and how it made me feel sad, thinking about how some people have to spend their Christmas in a hospital. I remember that I broke one of my dolls, messed up her dress, or something to that extent, and I became upset. The next few months after that, I had no idea that you had cancer, I just knew that you were really sick. I don’t think I found out until I was 10 or 11, and I didn’t know that you had pancreatic cancer until a couple of years later. I just recently found out that you had one of the most deadly cancers when I was doing an assignment in English about Steve Jobs. I remember going to the hospital everyday during the summer. I remember playing with the puzzles they had in the waiting room while Mama and I waited on you. I know that you had 3 surgeries, but I only remember two of them. I remember that for one of them I stayed with Angie while Mama stayed with you, although we came to visit. For the other sugery, I remember Mom and I stayed in a hotel and came to visit you every day. We went to that hospital so much that I still remember it semi-clearly. I had memorized your room number, but I don’t remember it now. I remember Mama sitting down with me one night and telling me that you were going to die. Less than a year after we first went to the hospital on that Christmas morning, I remember the school bus dropping me off, and I was confused that Angie’s truck was in the driveway, and that her and Mama were in the yard waiting for me. Mama had packed a suitcase for me and told me that I was going to stay at Angie’s house because you were going to leave for good and she didn’t want me to witness it. She wasn’t even going to let me see you for one last time, and I got mad. I told her that she didn’t pack a Barbie that I wanted and she finally let me inside. I saw you in the living room on the hospital bed that we brought in the house a couple of weeks ago. You were barely breathing. You were just staring at the ceiling, and your mouth was open and you were making this gargled noise. It was like you were there, but you weren’t really there. I remember that I hugged you and told you I loved you, and Mama said that you couldn’t talk but you loved me. That image still haunts me to this day, but I am glad that I could see you one last time. I went to Angie’s, but picture day was the next day and I didn’t want to miss it, so we got up really early and drove to the school. I remember walking in and telling my best friend and my teacher that my dad was going to die. I was crying so hard. After they took my picture, we went back to Angie’s. That picture now hangs in the living room. Angie straightened my hair, and she bought me a nice necklace and bracelet to wear. I was wearing a Hannah Montana tee-shirt. It doesn’t even look like I was crying my eyes off seconds before the picture was took. Later that day, Mama called and said that you passed away. I remember seeing you a few days before your funeral. You felt really cold and looked very pale. You had makeup on. I remember going to the place that makes headstones with Mama. I remember Mama showing me two black shirts and asking me which one I wanted to wear to the funeral. At your funeral, a lot of people that I didn’t know came. The entire church was packed. Mama and I was sitting on the first row. I asked that they would play I Miss You by Miley Cyrus. I remember walking up to you and laying down a picture of us I drew in your coffin. I remember your coffin being lowered. We went home to have lunch, then we came back to attend the after-service thing. I remembered that I didn’t cry once that day, and I felt bad that I didn’t. It’s not that I wasn’t sad, I just couldnt cry for some reason.

It’s been 7 years since you passed away. I feel bad that you will never get to see me grow up. So much has happened. You never saw me on my first day of middle and high school. You weren’t there for any of my school dances. You weren’t there when I had my first (and only) relationship. You didn’t go with me to get my driving permit, and you never saw me drive. You never got to go to any of my choir concerts. You weren’t there at any of my school award ceremonies. You will never see me graduate, go to college, get married, or have kids of my own. I’m almost 16 now. Sometimes it feels like you were only a dream. I wish I was more observant when I was a kid. I hardly remember anything about you, besides what Mom has told me. It was your birthday a few days ago. I can’t imagine you being that old. Time is going by too quickly. I’m growing up so fast, and you are being left behind. I wonder if you would recognize me if you saw me today. I’m glad that I inherited your red hair. I feel like it’s a part of you I will always carry with me, and it reminds me of you. You would be proud of me if you could see me today. I have been though so much since you left, and I always give it my all. My life is currently pretty good. I wonder if you can see me from up above. This letter isn’t my best work and is kinda all over the place, but I want you to know that I’m okay, and I think about you a lot. I miss you Daddy.