My heart was already beating faster as I walked back from the mailbox. The envelope—light green, handwritten—sat heavy in my hand. The handwriting immediately reminded me of my dad’s.

I wasn’t ready to open it.

I set it on my desk in my office and let it sit there for a couple of hours. Nervous energy zipped through me, which is awesome for someone with neuropathy. After dinner, I finally felt steady enough to go back to my office, sit down, and open it.

Inside was thick, beautiful paper. With a shaky breath and shaky hands, I unfolded it slowly and began to read.

And before I go further, if you’re unfamiliar with the Dad Letter Project, it began in 2025 when a daughter posted on TikTok about her newly retired dad, who wanted to be “everyone’s dad”. The kind who writes letters, encourages, and reminds you that you matter in this world. The response was incredible. Messages poured in from people who their dads had passed away, never had one show up for them, or hadn’t heard “I’m proud of you” in a very long time. What started as one dad writing a few letters quietly grew into something much bigger.

That was the letter I was holding.

I mentioned that the handwriting reminded me of my own dad’s. He was never known for penmanship. As he got older, it became even messier. I used to hold up his notes and say, “What in the world does this say?” He’d just shrug. Smile. And make me guess.

This letter felt like that.

The man who wrote to me shared that his own father had passed in 2020. He’s writing a book for therapeutic reasons. Not necessarily to publish, just to process. And he encouraged me, gently but firmly, to keep writing mine. To let grief and authenticity move from my heart to the keyboard.

I sobbed while I read it.

He included a quote I know I’ll return to on the hard days, the days doubt creeps in, and I question whether any of this matters.

I didn’t go into this expecting it to replace my dad. Nothing ever could. I wasn’t looking for that. I was hoping for encouragement. Maybe a little kick in the pants when it comes to finishing my book. Some good ‘ole dad wisdom.

What I didn’t anticipate was how deeply it would stir something within me.

To the outside world, it may seem silly to some to want a letter from a dad who is technically a stranger.

But if you’re in the Dead Dads Club, you understand.

We don’t want replacements. We want connection. We want someone to say, “Keep going. I’m proud of you.” Those words still matter. They always will.

My dad’s words come in whispers and brief encounters in dreams. Some days, that isn’t enough, but I hold on to them as long as I can.

No letter will ever compare to the emails, texts, and the occasional card my dad wrote. I reread those often. They are sacred.

But this letter?

It absolutely made my day.

And I’m really glad I said yes.

The guilt still shows up.
Unannounced.
Heavy.

It settles in my chest and moves through me like something alive,
circulating through my veins,
quiet but relentless.

I keep asking myself the same questions, Dad.
Why didn’t I see it?
How did I miss the signs your body was giving?
Why didn’t I push harder, insist louder, love more forcefully?
I tell myself I should have made you go to the doctor,
as if love alone could have overridden fate.

Grief and guilt have a way of threading themselves together.
So tight it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.

My therapist asked me,
But how would you have known?
And I know the answer.
I wouldn’t have.

But knowing that doesn’t dissolve the guilt.
It doesn’t loosen its grip.
It just lives alongside it.

I’m learning how to move through days without you.
Some days, life has shaped itself around your absence,
adjusted, adapted, and found new edges.
And other days, the void is right there in front of me,
wide open,
inescapable.

I still hear you from time to time.
Your voice echoes in ordinary moments.
Memories rewind in my mind like an old VCR tape,
grainy and familiar,
playing scenes I never want to fast-forward through.

They say time heals.
But it doesn’t.

Grief doesn’t disappear.
It evolves.
It changes form.
It learns how to coexist with breath and routine and laughter.

But love, Dad—
love doesn’t evolve away.
It stays exactly where it’s always been.

With me.

I love you.

Three Christmases without you.
How is that even possible?

We were so happy we made it back before Christmas. You loved that. You loved us being home. You especially loved my Swedish meatballs, though, honestly, you loved any food that showed up reliably and in generous portions.

You were exhausted that year. Chemo the week before, your body worn thin, but still, there you were. Moving and shaking in the loosest possible sense, walker and all. You were never a big “holiday guy.” No fuss, no sparkle obsession. You were about people. About sitting close. About eating well. Very well.

That first Christmas without you was unbearable. Not poetic-unbearable. Just brutal. I wanted to skip the whole thing—lights, music, cheer, all of it. I took everything down early, like if I packed it away fast enough, the grief might follow.

Last year was different. Still painful, but less sharp. More familiar. This year… this year is hard in a quieter way. Grief hasn’t left—it’s moved inward. Settled deeper. The love expanded, somehow, and filled the space where the pain used to scream.

I still cry. Tears sneak up on me. Sometimes full-body sobs, sometimes just that tight throat and burning eyes. But there’s also calm now. A strange calm. Memories play in my mind like an old VHS tape—grainy, imperfect, precious. I think it’s you. Nudging play. Saying, Remember this? How about this one?

The memories are random. Ones I didn’t even know I had stored away. And there you are in all of them, guiding me through, reminding me of the laughter, the silliness, the joy.

And still, sometimes it hits. Hard.
I can’t text you.
I can’t call you.

Phil and I were driving to the grocery store the other day, and I looked out at the fields—now crowded with brand-new houses and townhomes—and I just lost it. Phil squeezed my hand.

“Dad will never see how Sioux Falls is growing,” I said.

You always knew what was being built. New roads, new businesses, every time I saw something new, I’d ask you what it was. And you always knew. Always. I still laugh when I catch myself asking the empty passenger seat.

Time moves on.
The world keeps going.
That part still surprises me.

But you always said it, stay present, but look forward. I try. Some days through tears. Some days with real enthusiasm. Some days with both at once.

Because you’re still here.
In my heart.
In my thoughts.
In the way I remember things.

My Christmas wish hasn’t changed, and it never will.

I wish I had five more minutes.

I know, I sound like a Hallmark movie. You’d probably give me a hard time. But maybe… just maybe… a little holiday magic still exists. You never know.

Merry Christmas, Daddy.
I love you.

Love Always,

Phil showed me that the house on Danberry Drive recently sold.
I scrolled through the photos,
the paint colors changed, updates made,
but all I could see was you.

Your workbench in the garage,
the scent of sawdust and oil still clinging to memory.
Your oversized chair in the den,
where Blue Bloods or Myth Busters hummed in the background.
You, holding baby Logan in front of the Christmas tree,
the glow of lights soft against your face.

Grief rushed through me like a current—
sharp, familiar, alive.

When you first met Phil, he survived your interrogation.
Family gatherings when Logan was small.
My old bedroom, where I taped magazine articles and horoscopes on the closet doors, was later turned into Logan’s
when we came home to visit.

If those walls could talk,
they’d whisper in laughter and slammed doors,
tears and teenage storms, debates and Skol’s,
and the kind of love that only deepens with time.

And then,
somewhere between the ache and the warmth,
I smiled.

Because I am grateful.
Grateful for the home that built me,
for the echoes that still live in my bones,
and for you—
woven through it all.

I hope whoever lives there now
feels even a fraction of the love we left behind.