"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

Hi, dad’s dad! I know you’re somewhere I couldn’t wish to imagine, and I do not know if you’re in a good place but I do hope you are. You are a bad bad father, I just wanted you to know that, but your children have grown quite unlike you, so cheers to that. I’m sure you have made a good portion of difference on their lives, only it was short they can’t even remember. If you’re in heaven now, do know your children suffered hell here on Earth when you passed away. I’m your grandson, actually one of many of your grandsons. Some are living the good life, some dropped out of school, some are toddlers, but all of whom remembers nothing of you. I’ve seen your pictures, you and grandma. She is quite well, by the way. Gray and old, but well. Now, I have no idea why I’m writing to you . Might be because you’re the only dead person I know, or because I need you to watch over me. Don’t watch me right now, though. My father is getting a bit of a headache because I don’t really know if he cares about me. He can be sweet and kind and all cuddly but, sometimes he says mean and unecessary words that pains me so much. I know it is hard being a father, especially now that he must lift all this burden chaining his freedom. I can understand that we have no money to waste at all, I understand that I can’t do things other people can, that I don’t get to enjoy like people my age do with their lives. I totally understand that but it still hurts to think that. It still crushes every bit of hope and beautiful memories I have of life back when I was little, when I had no problem but my own drool to manage. But you don’t have to worry, we’re living well. We eat not as much, but still three times a day. I do attend school, and I’m 2 years away to college so be sure to be proud of that at least. For a year and a couple of months now, I have been dealing with stress, depression and anxiety. I’ll tell you this because I tell no one at all. I suffer from acne, very bad acne. That has made me think of various things in life. That has made me weaker, I guess. And it made me the person writing all this shit to you right now. You may not care, but you’re dead. I don’t tell my parents because I’m dead scared. It scares me how they won’t try to understand and feel my situation. And I’m well aware of other people’s problem. I get that they have it a lot worse than me but I can’t shake it off just by thinking that. No one tells me I’m ugly, but I know it when I see people staring at me. I know the jokes on their minds. I know their disgust. And I feel ugly, I look ugly, I feel like I don’t deserve to be of any good, or that I don’t deserve to feel any bit of the good things life has to offer. And I’m not happy at all, I feel like I never have been from the second I was born, like I was some kind of mistake. And your son doesn’t see how I feel, maybe he does and he just doesn’t care. Well I’m not blaming anyone for anything, I know it in myself that it’s just me, no one gives a damn about it. See, I’m a bad person. Maybe I am like you. Because the universe has decided to treat me like shit and make me look like shit. It made the two of us suffer. Yours just ended faster.

So grandpa, I hope you tell God to make it okay, if not better. If he’s not with you and you’re burning in hell, tell dear old satan to fuck off and stop messing with people. But I do hope you’re in heaven now. I’m crazy for saying this, but I hope this letter gets to you.