My 7-year-old daughter came home crying.
Her teacher told her, “Your dad must regret having you!” I was furious.
I went to confront the teacher.
She looked at me calmly and asked, “Have you even checked your daughter’s bag?”
I froze when she showed me a crumpled note.
It was written in my handwriting—messy and rushed, but there was no doubt it was mine.
“Some days I wish I never had her. I can’t do this anymore.”
I felt like the air had been knocked out of me.
The teacher didn’t yell or judge. She simply said, “I thought you should know this was in her lunchbox today. She read it to the class.”
I was speechless. My mouth went dry. I had no memory of writing that—but standing there, a dull ache started in my chest, guilt surfacing from somewhere deep inside.
The teacher’s voice softened. “Kids notice more than we think.”
That note… I had written it weeks ago during a breakdown. After working double shifts, struggling with bills, my car breaking down, and learning that my ex-wife might move states with her new boyfriend. I was exhausted, angry, and alone.
I scribbled that on the back of an envelope one night after putting Maren—my daughter—to bed. I never meant for anyone to read it. Especially not her.
But I remembered then—the same envelope had been on the kitchen counter. She must have grabbed it by mistake while packing her lunch. Her little fingers always eager to help.
That night, I watched her sleep—arms stretched out like a starfish, her favorite stuffed rabbit tucked under her chin.
Those words in the note didn’t reflect how I truly felt. Not even close.
I love that girl more than anything. But I hadn’t been showing it. Not lately.
The next morning, I asked the school for a meeting—with Maren, Mrs. Linton, and the school counselor.
Maren was quiet, looking down at her shoes. I knelt beside her.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That note wasn’t meant for you. I wrote it when I was really sad, tired, and confused. But it wasn’t about you, baby. It was about me struggling to be the dad you deserve.”
She looked up, her eyes glossy. “Do you really wish you didn’t have me?”
That’s when I broke down—in that tiny elementary school office, in front of strangers.
“No. Never. Not for one second. You’re the best thing in my life. I just… forgot how to take care of myself. But I’m going to fix that. For you. For us.”
It took more than words to heal.
I started therapy. Took a temporary leave from my second job to handle my stress. I swallowed my pride and asked my sister for help with after-school pickups. She was happy to help.
And Maren… she started drawing again. Singing again. She left me notes in my lunch like:
“You got this, Dad!”
“I love you even if your socks don’t match.”
“Don’t be sad today, okay?”
I keep those notes in my wallet now.
A few weeks later, I picked her up from school and Mrs. Linton stopped me.
“She told the class today that her dad is her hero,” she said. “She even made a card.”
The card was a crooked little drawing of me with a cape, holding her hand. Underneath, she’d written:
“My dad makes mistakes. But he always tries again.”
Life isn’t perfect now.
Some days we’re late. I burn dinner. The dog pees on the rug.
But I don’t feel broken anymore. I feel… human. And loved.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned—it’s that our kids don’t need us to be perfect. They just need us to be honest, present, and willing to keep trying.
Even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy.
So if you’re a parent feeling overwhelmed… please know:
You’re not alone. It’s okay to ask for help. Your child doesn’t need a perfect you—they need you trying your best.
If this touched your heart, share it with someone who needs to hear it today.
And please like if you believe every parent deserves a second chance.