There are so many things I want to tell you, father. Dear father of mine. I’m not going to go into the whole boohoo business about “Why did you leave me, oh why?” I don’t particularly care anymore. Not at all. Not that I haven’t wondered. Oh yes, from time to time, I would wonder, lying in my bed at night wishing on a nonexistent star, thinking that maybe we were staring at it together, just on two different sides of the globe. Mother told me the most glorious stories about you, dear father of mine. Stories that made me love you. And then a couple years back I learned the truth. You lived in the next town, with your wife and kid, and you were getting on fabulously without me. Not so much as a fucking letter, a simple telephone call. And you were only an hour away. Oh, there was screaming and yelling and not understanding that day, oh father. But I won’t go into that. I won’t. I’m writing this, you see, to inform you as to what I have been up to this past year. You haven’t inquired, but I thought it only fair that you know. Daddy, it really is true. I am the splitting image of you. Right down to the very last freckle, the very last curl. Like father, like fucking son. I have a girlfriend, father of mine. Her name is Jessica, and she is beautiful, she really is. Dark hair, bright eyes, and the most gorgeous tits ever. She’s pregnant. I knocked her up. I thought you might like to know. Are you proud? Mom says we’re too young. I wholeheartedly agree. I’m not ready, see, not ready at all. I’m only eighteen, in case you had forgotten. I wasn’t counting on being a father anytime soon. I figured I had years till that came along, years of living life and fucking up, and learning from my mistakes. That’s all over now. Last night, I cried. I cried my eyes out, screamed till my throat was raw. I contemplated just offing myself, once and for all. It was all so overwhelming, father, the notion that life will never be the same again. That I can no longer live for me. After I had calmed down a bit, I decided suicide was a bit drastic. I thought maybe I should just grab an old suitcase and stuff it with my few belongings, catch the next train out of here. And for a moment, I knew what it was like, perhaps, to be you. I figured this was the way you had felt all those years ago, when my mother had informed you that I was most definitely real and was most definitely going to ruin your life in nine month’s time. The sense of dread, the sense of despair, is astounding. I hated myself more than you can imagine. Like father. Like son…But I am not like you, not in the slightest. I had my little moment of doubt, and I got over it. I fucked up. I must learn from my mistake, the hard way. I’m not ready to find a job, work hard, support a wife and kid. I know there will be hard times ahead. I know that Jessica and I will hate each other before this is all through. But I refuse to run away, I refuse to be a lowlife, cocksucking coward. Like yourself. I don’t want to look back on this period of my life, years from now, and feel the guilt that possibly consumes you every day. Or, worse, feel nothing. Do you sleep at night? Do you fucking sleep at night knowing what you’ve done? I’m crying right now. But not over you. It’s happiness. I’m thinking that, maybe this won’t be so bad. I’m going to make my son the happiest little boy on the planet. He’s going to be loved. He’s going to be wanted. He’ll be my pride and joy. And they’ll be saying, “Like father, like son.” And he’ll never feel ashamed.