When my son first asked about his father, he was only four. It started with a drawing—a little stick-figure ship, a smiley face with a mustache, and waves that looked like tangled spaghetti. Then he handed me a marker and whispered, “Write to him that I’m waiting. And that we live in the house with the red roof. So he can find us if he’s lost.”
So I wrote. Every year.
It was easier than telling him the truth—that his father had left and never came back. Instead, I created a story. A sailor, brave and strong, out at sea but always trying to find his way home. A father who was missing, not absent. It gave Tommy hope.
At five, he added crayon drawings. At six, he signed his name. At seven, he wrote a full letter. By eight, he was tucking in his saved pocket money with the note:
“If you don’t have enough to buy a ticket.”
Every year, he rolled the letter, tied it with string, sealed it in a bottle, and released it into the canal.
But at nine, he stopped.
I found him sitting silently in his room, the half-written letter and bottle untouched. His voice was quiet but heavy:
“Everyone at school says I made him up. Maybe they’re right.”
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