Letters to My Kids: What I'd Say If They'd Listen

My daughter turned 12 last week. I wasn't invited to the party. I sent a card that probably went straight in the trash. So I'm writing letters I know they'll never read. Maybe yours will someday. Maybe these words will help you write your own.

I started writing these letters six months after I lost custody. Not lost—had stolen from me, let's be honest. Six months of court-ordered supervised visitation in a cold room with a social worker taking notes. Six months of my kids looking at me like I was a stranger. Six months of their mother whispering poison in their ears every single day.

The therapist said writing letters could help me process the grief. What she didn't tell me was that these letters would become the only way I could still be their father. The only place I could say the things they need to hear. The only proof that I never stopped fighting for them.

I keep them in a box. Each one dated, sealed, waiting. Maybe they'll read them when they're eighteen. Maybe twenty-five. Maybe never. But I write them anyway, because a father who stops trying to reach his children isn't a father anymore. And I refuse to let her take that from me too.

Brother, if you're separated from your kids—whether by court order, by geography, or by alienation—these letters might help you too. Not just for them. For you. Because sometimes you need to say the words out loud, even if no one's listening yet.

Letter 1: To My Son on His 10th Birthday

"The Day You Stopped Hugging Me Back"

Dear Jacob,

You're ten today. Double digits, like you've been so excited about since you turned nine. I remember you counting down the days last year, telling everyone you were "almost ten" even when you were barely nine-and-a-half.

I wasn't there when you woke up this morning. I didn't get to make you my famous birthday pancakes—the ones with chocolate chips in a smiley face that you always said tasted better than any restaurant. I didn't get to see you open presents or blow out candles or do any of the things a father should do on his son's tenth birthday.

Instead, I'm sitting in an apartment that's not really home, writing you a letter you'll probably never read.

I keep thinking about the last time you hugged me back. Really hugged me, I mean. Not the stiff, awkward one-arm thing you've been doing at the supervised visits. I'm talking about those full-body hugs where you'd run at me after school and nearly knock me over, wrapping your whole self around me like you were trying to climb a tree.

The last real hug was three months before your mom filed for divorce. We'd been at your soccer game—you scored two goals that day and I was so proud I couldn't stop grinning. When the game ended, you ran straight to me, uniform muddy, face sweaty, grinning so wide. You jumped into my arms and said, "Did you see, Dad? Did you see both of them?"

I saw, buddy. I saw everything.

I don't know exactly when that changed. When my hugs started making you uncomfortable. When you started pulling away. When you started looking at me like I was someone to be wary of instead of someone to run toward.

But I know why. And someday, when you're old enough to understand, you'll know too.

Your mom tells you I'm angry. That I'm unstable. That I chose to leave. None of that is true, Jacob. I'm not angry—I'm heartbroken. I'm not unstable—I'm devastated. And I didn't leave. I was removed from our home by a court order based on accusations that never happened.

I know you're hearing different stories right now. I know your mom is telling you things about me that make you scared or confused. I know you might even believe them, because she's your mom and you trust her. That's okay. You're supposed to trust your mom. I'm not asking you to choose between us.

What I want you to know is this: I have never stopped loving you. Not for one single second. Not on the day the police came. Not during the hearings. Not during the supervised visits where you barely look at me. Not today, on your tenth birthday, when I should be with you but I'm not.

You are my son. That doesn't change because of court orders or because of what anyone says about me. That doesn't change if you stop hugging me back or if you decide you don't want to see me anymore. You are always, always my boy.

I know things about you that no one else knows. I know you're terrified of thunderstorms but you won't admit it because you think it's babyish. I know you still sleep with that old stuffed elephant your grandpa gave you when you were two, tucked under your pillow where no one can see. I know you want to be a marine biologist when you grow up, ever since we went to the aquarium and you saw those giant sea turtles.

I know that when you're nervous, you crack your knuckles—left hand first, then right. I know you hate onions but you'll eat them if they're mixed into something so you don't have to pick them out and seem picky. I know your laugh—the real one, not the polite one—sounds exactly like mine used to when I was your age.

I know these things because I was there, Jacob. For ten years, I was there. I changed your diapers and walked the floor with you when you had colic. I taught you to ride a bike and picked you up every time you fell. I helped with homework and coached your soccer team and read you stories at bedtime even when I was exhausted from work.

I was there. And just because I'm not allowed to be there now doesn't erase those ten years. It doesn't erase who we were to each other. It doesn't erase that you're my son and I'm your dad.

Someday—I don't know when, but someday—you're going to have questions. You're going to wonder why things happened the way they did. You're going to want to know my side of the story. When that day comes, I'll be here. These letters will be here. And I'll answer every single question honestly, even the hard ones.

Until then, I'm going to keep being your dad in every way I can. I'm going to send cards on your birthday and Christmas, even if they get thrown away. I'm going to show up to every visitation, even if you don't hug me back. I'm going to fight in court to see you, even when it feels hopeless. I'm going to write these letters, even if you never read them.

Because that's what fathers do. We don't give up. We don't walk away. We keep showing up, even when it hurts.

Happy tenth birthday, son. I wish I could be there to celebrate with you. I wish I could see your face when you open your presents. I wish I could hug you—really hug you—one more time.

But most of all, I wish you knew how much I love you. How proud I am of you. How every single day since I've been gone, I've thought about you and missed you and wished things were different.

You're ten now. Growing up so fast. Becoming your own person. And even though I'm not there to see it, I'm still so proud of who you're becoming.

I love you, Jacob. Always have. Always will.

Dad

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Letter 2: To My Daughter Before Her First Dance

"The Dad Speech You Deserved to Hear"

Dear Emma,

I heard through your grandmother that you have your first school dance coming up. The winter formal. I can't believe you're old enough for that already. Twelve feels impossibly grown up for my little girl who used to make me play princess tea party every Saturday morning.

I should be there for this. I should be the dad who awkwardly takes too many pictures and tells you that you look beautiful and gives you that embarrassing father-daughter talk about dances and boys and what to do if someone makes you uncomfortable.

Since I can't be there in person, I'm writing it down. Maybe you'll read it someday. Maybe you won't. But I'm saying it anyway, because these are the things fathers tell their daughters, and I'm still your father even if I'm not allowed to be there.

You are beautiful. Not because of what you wear to the dance or how you style your hair or any of that external stuff. You're beautiful because you're kind to people who get left out. You're beautiful because you laugh so hard at your own jokes that you snort sometimes. You're beautiful because you're smart and creative and you don't pretend to be dumb to make other people comfortable.

I know you're at that age where everything feels awkward and you're hyperaware of how you look and what people think. I know you probably stood in front of the mirror for an hour trying to figure out what to wear. I know you're worried about whether you look right or if people will think you're weird or if boys will pay attention to you.

Here's what I want you to know: The people who matter don't care about any of that surface stuff. The people worth knowing are going to see the real you—the girl who volunteers to read to kindergarteners at the library, who stands up for kids getting bullied, who texts her friends when she knows they're having a hard day. That Emma is the one worth celebrating.

You don't owe anyone anything. Not a dance, not your attention, not your time. If a boy asks you to dance and you don't want to, you can say no. You don't have to explain or apologize or make excuses. "No, thank you" is a complete sentence.

If someone makes you uncomfortable—touches you in a way you don't like, says something that feels wrong, pressures you to do something you don't want to do—you get out of that situation immediately. You find a teacher, you call your mom, you leave with your friends. Your safety and comfort matter more than anyone's feelings.

I wish I could be the dad who picks you up from the dance, who's there if you need me, who you can call if something goes wrong. I hate that I can't be that person right now. But please know: if you ever need help, if you ever feel unsafe, if you ever just need your dad—I'm here. I will always be here.

You are not what she says you are. I don't know what your mother tells you about me. I don't know how much of it you believe. But I need you to hear this: You are not the product of a broken marriage. You are not damaged by our divorce. You are not less than because your family doesn't look like other families.

You are Emma. You are smart and funny and talented and strong. You are capable of amazing things. And none of that changes because your parents aren't together anymore.

Whatever anger or sadness or confusion you feel about the divorce—those feelings are valid. It's okay to be mad at me. It's okay to be mad at your mom. It's okay to be mad at the whole situation. You don't have to pretend everything is fine when it's not.

But please don't let this change who you are. Don't let it make you bitter or closed off or afraid to trust people. Don't let it convince you that love doesn't last or that relationships are doomed or that you're somehow broken.

You're not broken, sweetheart. You're just going through something really hard. There's a difference.

Choose different for your future. You're twelve, so I know you're not thinking about relationships or marriage or any of that yet. You're thinking about the dance and your friends and what you're going to wear. As you should be.

But someday—years from now—you're going to have relationships of your own. You're going to have to choose who you let into your life. And I want you to choose differently than what you've seen modeled for you.

Choose someone who respects you. Who listens when you talk. Who doesn't try to control you or manipulate you or make you doubt your own reality. Choose someone who celebrates your success instead of feeling threatened by it. Choose someone who encourages you to be yourself, not who they want you to be.

And if you ever find yourself in a relationship that feels like what your mom and I had—full of conflict and control and walking on eggshells—I want you to know you can leave. You don't have to stay because you've been together a long time or because you have kids or because you're scared of what people will think. You deserve better than that. You always deserve better than that.

I'm proud of you. Even though I'm not there to see you every day, I'm so proud of who you're becoming. Your grandmother tells me you made honor roll again. She tells me you joined the art club and that your paintings are really good. She tells me you're kind to your brother even when he's annoying, and that you help around the house without being asked.

I'm proud of all of that. But I'm also proud of the smaller things. I'm proud that you're brave enough to go to your first dance, even though I bet you're nervous. I'm proud that you're growing up and figuring out who you are. I'm proud that you're my daughter.

I wish I could give you the Dad Speech in person. I wish I could take those embarrassing photos and tell you to be home by 10:30 and remind you that you're beautiful and brave and strong. I wish I could be the dad who's there when you get home to ask how it went and if you had fun and if any boys were jerks to you.

But even though I can't be there physically, I'm with you in every way that matters. I'm thinking about you tonight. I'm hoping you have an amazing time. I'm sending you all the love a father can send to his daughter, even across the distance that separates us.

Have fun at the dance, Emma. Dance with your friends. Laugh too loud. Don't worry about looking cool. Be yourself, because yourself is pretty wonderful.

And know that somewhere, your dad is thinking about you and wishing he could be there to see how beautiful you look.

I love you, sweetheart. More than you know.

Dad

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Letter 3: To Both Kids After a Missed Holiday

"Christmas Morning in an Empty House"

Dear Jacob and Emma,

It's Christmas morning. 6:47 AM. I've been awake since 5:00, because apparently my body still remembers what time you two used to wake up on Christmas and won't let me sleep past it.

I'm sitting in my apartment with a cup of coffee, looking at the small tree I put up in the corner. It has twelve ornaments on it—the ones I managed to take when I left the house. The glittery handprint you made in preschool, Jacob. The felt stocking with Emma's name that you decorated in kindergarten. The "World's Best Dad" ornament you both gave me three years ago, before everything fell apart.

Twelve ornaments on a tree that used to have seventy-five. A living room that's quiet when it should be full of wrapping paper and laughter and arguments over who got more presents.

This is my first Christmas without you. And it's the hardest morning I've ever lived through.

I keep thinking about what you're doing right now. You're probably at Mom's house, surrounded by her family, opening presents. Maybe you're wearing matching pajamas. Maybe someone made hot cocoa. Maybe you're having so much fun that you haven't even thought about me.

I hope you are. I hope you're having an amazing Christmas, even if I'm not there. Because you're still kids, and kids deserve magical Christmases, and the divorce isn't your fault. You shouldn't have to be sad on Christmas morning because your dad is sad.

But I'm going to be honest with you, even though you won't read this for years: I'm devastated. This hurts in a way I didn't know was possible. It's not like breaking an arm or getting rejected or failing at something. It's a different kind of pain—the kind that sits in your chest and makes it hard to breathe. The kind that doesn't have a cure or a timeline. The kind that just... is.

Do you remember our Christmas traditions? We had so many.

We'd always drive around the neighborhood on Christmas Eve looking at lights. You'd keep score of whose house had the best decorations. Emma, you always voted for the houses with the most colors. Jacob, you preferred the ones that had those giant inflatable characters. We'd get hot chocolate from that coffee shop on Main Street—the one that put whipped cream and sprinkles on top. You'd both be bouncing in the back seat, too excited to sleep.

Christmas morning, you'd wake up at an ungodly hour. You'd sneak downstairs to see if Santa had come, even though we told you a hundred times to wait for us. Then you'd run into our room and jump on the bed until we got up. No sleeping in on Christmas in our house. Not ever.

I'd make my famous cinnamon rolls—the ones from the tube that I pretended I made from scratch and you pretended to believe me. We'd eat breakfast in front of the tree. Then we'd open presents one at a time, slowest to fastest, so everyone could watch each other open gifts. Emma, you always went first because you're younger. Jacob, you always complained that going last was torture.

After presents, we'd watch Christmas movies in our pajamas until lunch. Then your grandparents would come over and we'd have a big dinner. Turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, the works. You'd play with your new toys and run around the house with your cousins and everything would smell like cinnamon and pine needles and happiness.

Those are the Christmases I remember. Those are the mornings I thought we'd have forever.

This year is different. This year, I'm alone in an apartment that doesn't feel like home, missing traditions we won't get back, grieving a future that doesn't exist anymore.

But here's what I want you to know: Even though I'm not there, I honored our traditions anyway.

Last night, I drove around looking at Christmas lights. I got hot chocolate from our coffee shop. I thought about you both the entire time and imagined you were in the back seat, arguing over which house was the best.

This morning, I opened the presents I bought for you. I couldn't give them to you—the court order says I can only give gifts at supervised visitation, and that's not until after New Year's. So I wrapped them, put them under the tree, and this morning I opened them myself just to see them.

Jacob, I got you that book series about the ocean explorers you've been talking about. Emma, I found that art set you wanted with all the different kinds of pencils and paints. I know you won't get them for months, if at all. But I bought them anyway, because that's what fathers do on Christmas. We buy presents for our kids, even if we can't give them in person.

I made cinnamon rolls. I watched Christmas movies. I called my parents and pretended I was doing okay when they asked how I was handling the day.

I did all of it because I'm still your dad, and these are still our traditions, even if we're not together.

I want you to know that even though I wasn't there this morning, I thought about you every single second. I imagined your faces when you opened your gifts. I wondered if you got what you wanted, if you were surprised, if you were happy. I hoped you remembered our traditions. I hoped you missed me, even just a little bit.

But mostly, I hoped you were happy. Because that's what matters most. Your happiness. Your joy. Your magical Christmas morning.

Maybe next year will be different. Maybe the court will grant me Christmas Eve or Christmas morning. Maybe we'll get to have cinnamon rolls and presents and light-looking drives again. Maybe you'll be excited to see me instead of uncomfortable. Maybe things will start to get better.

Or maybe they won't. Maybe this is the new normal: holidays spent apart, traditions maintained separately, family split down the middle.

I don't know what the future holds. All I know is this: I'm still your father. Christmas apart doesn't change that. Distance doesn't change that. Court orders and custody schedules and all the legal system mess doesn't change that.

I love you both so much that it physically hurts. I miss you every single day, but especially today. I'm thinking about you this morning and hoping your Christmas is everything you wanted it to be.

And I'm saving these presents for you, because someday I'm going to see you again, and when I do, you're getting every single gift I couldn't give you when I should have.

Merry Christmas, my beautiful children. I hope Santa was good to you. I hope you're surrounded by love and laughter and magic today.

And I hope that someday, we'll have Christmas morning together again.

I love you. Always.

Dad

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Reflections Between Letters

I've written twenty-three letters so far. Sometimes I write one a week. Sometimes I go a month without writing because it hurts too much. Sometimes I write three in one night because I can't sleep and the only thing that helps is putting words on paper.

These letters aren't just for Jacob and Emma. They're for me too.

They're a record of my love for them when I'm not allowed to show it in person. They're proof that I never gave up, never walked away, never stopped being their father. They're my way of processing the grief of parental alienation—a grief that has no name and no support group and no casserole from well-meaning friends.

When you lose a child to death, the world acknowledges your pain. People send flowers. They bring food. They tell you they're sorry for your loss. There are rituals and traditions and space for your grief.

When you lose a child to alienation, there's nothing. No acknowledgment. No sympathy. Just people asking why you don't see your kids, implying it must be your fault, wondering why you don't just "try harder" as if you haven't been trying with everything you have.

These letters are my ritual. My way of staying connected when connection isn't allowed. My proof that I'm still here, still loving them, still being their father in the only way I can.

And maybe someday, when they're adults, when they're ready to hear the truth, when they come looking for answers—these letters will be here. They'll read them and they'll understand. They'll know that I never stopped fighting. I never stopped loving them. I never stopped being their dad.

Or maybe they'll never read them. Maybe they'll stay in that box forever, unopened and unread. Maybe Jacob and Emma will grow up believing their mother's version of events and never come looking for mine.

Even if that happens, I'll keep writing. Because these letters aren't just about them reading them someday. They're about me refusing to let alienation steal my fatherhood. They're about maintaining that bond, even across distance and court orders and lies. They're about hope.

Hope that truth eventually wins. Hope that love is stronger than manipulation. Hope that children, once they're grown, can see through the fog of alienation and find their way back to the parent who never stopped reaching for them.

Action Item: Write Your Own Letters

If you're separated from your kids—for any reason—I want to encourage you to write letters too. Here's how:

Get a notebook or folder specifically for this. Make it nice. Make it something that will last years. This is important work, so treat it that way. Date each letter. Years from now, that date will matter. Your kids will see the pattern of how often you wrote, how long you kept trying, how you never gave up. Be honest. Don't sugarcoat. Don't lie. Don't pretend everything is fine. These letters are for when your kids are old enough to handle the truth. Write for that future version of them, not the child they are now. Tell them what's happening in your life. They're missing your daily life. Tell them about your job, your hobbies, where you're living, what you're doing. Help them know who you are now, not just who you were when you lived together. Share what you remember about them. Specific memories, inside jokes, things only you and they would know. This proves you were there, you were present, you paid attention. Those details will matter. Express your love, but don't demand theirs. Say "I love you" as many times as you need to. But don't put pressure on them to feel a certain way or respond a certain way. Give them space to be wherever they are. Don't badmouth their mother. This is so hard, I know. But resist the temptation to use these letters as a place to vent about your ex. When your kids read these someday, they don't need to feel caught in the middle. Tell your truth, but do it without attacking her. Include practical wisdom. These are the father-child conversations you'd be having if you were there. Advice about relationships, boundaries, self-worth, choosing friends, handling conflict. All the life skills you'd teach them in person. Keep them safe. Get a fireproof box. Or a safety deposit box. These letters are precious cargo. Protect them like the treasure they are.

The Long View

Brother, I'm not going to lie to you. These letters are painful to write. Every single one opens up that wound fresh. Every letter is a reminder of what's been stolen from me and from my kids.

But they're also hope. They're faith that this isn't forever. They're belief that truth eventually surfaces and love eventually wins and kids eventually grow up and see reality for what it is.

I'm playing the long game now. Not the court game—I've learned that system is broken. Not the mother-pleasing game—I've learned she doesn't want me in their lives at all. I'm playing the long game with my kids, the one that spans decades, the one where I'm still here when they come looking for answers.

These letters are my way of staying in the fight. Of refusing to be erased. Of maintaining my fatherhood even when it's not acknowledged or allowed or respected.

Write your letters. Even if they never read them. Even if it hurts. Even if it feels pointless.

Write them, because you're still their father. And fathers don't give up.

They're for them. But they're also for you. They're proof you never stopped trying. Evidence you never walked away. A record of love that survives separation.

Write your letters, brother. Your kids will need them someday. And you need them now.

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If you're separated from your children, writing letters can be a powerful tool for processing grief and maintaining connection. Keep them dated, honest, and safe. Someday, they may be the bridge that brings your family back together.