When you first left, I wrote you a letter. An angry letter, a letter with all the reasons why I was mad at you. How I hated that you moved away without hesitation. How I was furious that you never kept in contact with me. How I was so heartbroken that my boyfriend and my children would probably never meet you.

Today, one year after you’ve left us, I re-write my letter. The letter I wrote in my early twenties, before I had children and when life seemed so easy.

To you, Pepère.
I’m sorry.
I understand now.
And thank you.

I understand that when you move somewhere, it is not without hesitation. It is by thinking of all the reasons why, good and bad, easy and difficult. When you move somewhere, it will most often hurt, not only those you leave, but yourself as well. I understand, and I am sorry that I resented you for it.

I’m sorry that I never reached out. It’s easy to blame you, to get angry that you never reached out to me, but I didn’t make an effort either. And I’m sorry that I was mad at you for something I could have fixed.

Thank you. Thank you for making the drive and meeting my children. Thank you for playing with them, holding them, and feeding them. Thank you for the moments that I will forever cherish in my heart. Because, even though I thought you would never meet my cildren, you made the effort to come to my home and meet them. I am sorry that when I finally came to visit you, after multiple times of saying “maybe next time”, I lost you.

Je t’aime.

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