Dearest daughter.

I want to tell you everything.

Everything that came before you. Everything that came to be you, from my side at least.

I want you to know more about my life, and the lives of other people who shaped my life, for better or worse. I want you to know how we got here.

I want you to know where I come from, and the indelible impact it’s had on me.

I want you to know who I come from, and why the ones who are gone would love you, and why the ones who are left don’t deserve to know you.

I want you to know what I come from, and why I work very hard not to let that pain touch you. I know it’s impractical and unreasonable to try to spare you from pain, and that isn’t my intention. But I know that you would feel my pain as if it belongs to you, and I don’t wish that for you at all.

I want you to know why. But it’s hard to explain to you as a child what I’m only just barely beginning to understand as an adult.

I want to tell you everything. Perhaps someday I will. For now, it needs to be enough to know that the life we have together exists because I decided I’d had enough of how it was, and I knew how good it could be, with enough care. For now, it needs to be enough that we are here, together. We have each other.

And that’s everything.