Hello again, Daddy,
I was just wondering, did you see me last night? Of course you must have done, because they told me that you saw everything and that nothing escaped from you, not even people -- in fact, especially not people. Well, I guess that means you saw the way I clutched my pillow like it was a person and it could comfort me; I guess that means you saw me biting my own fist to stop my sobs from waking my sister, because she'd be bound to come and investigate.
Yeah, I guess you saw all that. What I was wondering was, why didn't you help me? All I needed was some sort of sign that I wasn't alone. Your hand around me, Daddy, that's what I needed, the sort of thing a daughter wants from her father. In short, a cuddle. That was all I needed.
But you let me cry. I wonder if there's a reason that you let that happen. Maybe my insomnia was decided by you so that I'd hear the words and remember I could always tell you. That seems to me perfectly acceptable, even though I don't like the idea. Because now I'm tired, and tearful, and I'm on the edge of yet another emotional break down, like the one I had as I walked through the park yesterday.
I don't know what it is, Daddy, but I know it's something to do with you because it's whenever I think about you that it happens. At least, it's whenever I think about the people who are supposed to be my brothers and sisters, your children, and remember all the times they've let me down. I don't understand why you don't stop them.
Daddy, of course you're there. That's what they told me, that you were always with me. Next time, please, show me something to help me carry on.