Dear Dad,

You took so much from me.

You took the safety a little girl should feel in her home.

You took the trust a daughter should have in her father.

You stole my childhood, my innocence, my voice.

But the damage didn’t stop with me.

You hurt the people I love so much.

You broke my mom in ways she’s still trying to understand.

You robbed my brothers of their sense of safety, of what a father should be.

You tore through our family like a storm we didn’t ask for—and we didn’t deserve that.

We deserved a healed father, one who didn't repeat the cycle he was put in to.

A man who actually took the advice he underlined in his Bible.

A father who lived what he preached.

Someone who protected us from the world—not someone who showed us how dark it could be.

On the outside, you would have seen a smiling family in church clothes.

But inside, we were bleeding.

And now, even in a life that might look perfect—a loving husband, a beautiful home, a miracle daughter— I still carry her: the broken little girl inside me, begging for someone to protect her.

You didn’t protect me.

But Luci will not have the same story.

My daughter is loved deeply.

She is safe.

She has two parents who will stand between her and the darkness.

She has a mama who has clawed her way through grief and rage, and still chooses to lift her hands in worship.

She has a daddy who wears a badge and protects her with his life.

He may not share my faith (yet!) but he rallies behind me as I lead her to Jesus.

And that is no small thing.

Together, we are raising a little girl who knows what it feels like to be safe, to be seen, to be loved without condition.

She has what I didn’t.

And that truth brings both healing and ache.

Because I will always grieve what should’ve been.

And yet—this letter isn’t just about what you took.

It’s about what you couldn’t take.

You didn’t take my ability to love.

You didn’t silence me forever.

You didn’t take away my motherhood.

You didn’t get to stain the life I’ve built in the light.

God is doing what you never could—He is redeeming.

He is mending the places you shattered.

He is speaking truth to the lies you left.

He is walking me toward peace, and slowly, I am letting go.

Not because you deserve it.

But because I do.

I deserve peace.

I deserve rest.

I deserve to step into the future without dragging your sins behind me.

You don’t get to be part of the life I’ve built.

You don’t get to witness the redemption God is giving me.

You don’t get to see the chains break, the healing unfold, or the beauty that’s growing from the ashes you left behind.

I hope that haunts you.

Because it should.

So here it is: the anger, the ache, the longing to be protected, the grief of a stolen childhood—I’m setting it down.

Not because it never mattered.

But because it doesn’t get to hold me anymore.

You will never be her grandfather.

You lost that privilege.

Your cycle ended with me.

I may never get justice on this side of heaven, but my God saw everything.

Every moment.

Every scar.

Every tear.

And I know with every fiber of my being—justice will come at the gates.

And I pray, from the deepest parts of my soul, that your sins don’t touch another little girl.

That no other child has to grow up carrying what I did.

God gets the final word.

And He’s making beauty from what you tried to destroy.

—Your daughter