There may come a time when you’re ready to ask, What really happened between Mom and Dad?
This letter is for that moment.

I’ve waited years to write this—not because I didn’t have anything to say, but because I didn’t want my voice to interfere with your peace. But now that you’re older, and possibly ready to see things from more than one angle, I want to give you my perspective—not to change your mind, but to complete the picture.

Before anything else, I want you to know this: I love you. I always have, and I always will. That love is unconditional. No matter what you believe, how you choose to live, or how far your life may grow away from mine—I will always be your father. And I will always be here.

Your mother and I married young. We were different people—raised with different values, shaped by different worldviews. Over time, those differences grew wider. How we saw parenting, how we handled emotions, how we approached life—it all became a source of tension. By the ninth or tenth year of our marriage, we were simply no longer partners. We tried to fix it. We sought counseling. We took a trip to Hawaii that, in hindsight, only showed us how broken things really were. I wanted it to work, but we had changed. The foundation was no longer solid.

Eventually, I was the one who said the words out loud: This isn’t working anymore. I didn’t make that decision lightly. I knew it would hurt. But I believed it would hurt more to stay in a situation where your mom and I were resentful, frustrated, and constantly clashing. We both deserved better—and more importantly, you deserved peace.

But how we handled the breakup—that was something I’ll never forget. And not in a good way.

The day I moved out, I had asked your mom to give us time to prepare you. I wanted to sit down with you both gently, together, in a loving and structured way, and tell you what was happening. I wanted to be careful. I wanted to be thoughtful. But instead, she brought you outside to me that very same moment—while you were still playing, completely unaware—and demanded I tell you right then.

I remember looking into your sweet, innocent eyes as I told you something no child should have to hear without preparation: Mom and Dad aren’t going to be together anymore. Your eyes welled up with tears, and I did what I could to protect you in that moment. I said, “It’s going to be okay. Daddy will be around. Everything’s going to be okay.”
And your mom—right there, in front of you—cut in and said, “No, it’s not. It is not going to be okay. You need to tell the truth.”

That moment shattered me. Not because I was ashamed of the truth—but because it wasn’t about the truth. It was about control. That moment wasn’t about you. It was about her power, and it was a performance that cast me as the villain. You were used, whether she realized it or not. And I saw something shift in both of you that day.

After that, time passed. You stayed with your mom most of the time—we had agreed to that. I saw you about four to five days every two weeks, and I supported it because you were in school, and I thought stability mattered. I’ve never missed a single child support payment. I’ve always carried your health insurance. I’ve always provided financially, emotionally, and with open arms. I’ve never abandoned you.

Not once.

But over time, I noticed something happening. Your view of me started to shift, and I couldn’t always trace why. I know now that much of it came from the environment around you. The comments, the stories, the tone in which my name was used. Even the subtle things. It all adds up.

Your mother talked publicly and harshly about me after our divorce—online, with friends, sometimes even in front of you. She discussed our sex life. She claimed trauma that didn’t happen. She positioned herself as a victim of things I never did. She once told me she wanted to become a sex therapist because of how damaged she was by our marriage. That was her narrative. And while I’ll never shame her for her feelings, I will say clearly: those accusations were not based in reality. They were born from drama, bitterness, and a need for validation.

Years later, I started to date again. I eventually remarried, though it didn’t last. Your mother mocked it. When I would support Sarah—my now partner—your mom would send me puke emojis in response to Venmo transactions she had no business seeing. These weren’t just messages to me. They were messages about me, and I know they reached you. That’s how she operates—passive-aggressively shaping narratives behind the scenes.

Now, Presley—my beautiful daughter—I want to speak directly to you.

You are strong, sensitive, bright, and creative. You always have been. You’re finding your way in a world that’s loud and confusing, and I want you to know: I accept you as you are. If you identify as gay—so be it. You’ll always be my daughter. If you want to dress like a boy, wear what makes you feel strong, take on the world in your own way—I support that. But I cannot and will not lie about what I believe.

Gender is biological. It always has been. You were born a girl—my girl—and I don’t believe that can be changed. Not by language. Not by ideology. And certainly not by surgery. If you ever pursue a physical change to your body, I want you to know—truthfully—it would break my heart. Not because I don’t love you. But because I made you. I helped create you, raise you, love you. To see you disconnect from your core identity would feel like watching a part of me be erased.

You are my daughter. That’s never going to change. Even if you change everything about yourself, I will still love you. I will still be here. But I want you to understand the ache a father feels when the world tells his daughter she was born wrong. You were never born wrong. You were born mine.

And Reese, you too are navigating this life with your own heart, your own story. I know you’ve been in therapy. I know both of you have. And I want to say this clearly: therapy can be helpful—but it can also be manipulative when misused. You may have been told you had a traumatic childhood. That something about your upbringing was harmful or unstable. But I know, in my bones, that I never hurt you. I never struck you. I never abandoned you. I never yelled without reason. I was not perfect, but I was present. I loved you. I took you on trips. I supported you. I showed up, always.

But your mother often framed things in ways that suited her lens. She coddled every problem, amplified every pain. If you said your leg hurt, it was off to the doctor. If the cat sneezed, it went to the vet. Thousands of dollars spent not always in care—but in control. She controlled narratives through worry and overreaction. I, on the other hand, believe in resilience. If you stub your toe, I’m the dad who says, “That sucks. Take a breath. We’ll get through it.” Not because I don’t care—but because I want you to be strong.
That difference between us—between your mom and me—created imbalance. And when I tried to bring my voice into the equation, I was silenced. Shamed. Treated as harsh, when I was simply being the father I believe a home needs. A protector. A teacher. A man who knows the world can be brutal, and wants to prepare his daughters to face it—not with fear, but with dignity.

You were raised without that balance. And I see it now. I see it in how you handle conflict. I see it in how rarely you come to me for advice. I see it in how you question my values, but not always with curiosity—sometimes with condescension. And that’s okay. You’re young. But I want you to know what I sacrificed to protect your peace. I swallowed my truth for years, just to avoid being hated.

But the truth matters.

Today, I’m raising two more children. Sarah’s little ones. And I am the father I always wanted to be—because I am respected in that role. And these kids? They are respectful, kind, strong, and happy. Not because they’re afraid of me—but because they know I love them enough to say no when it’s needed.

I wish I had that chance with you, too.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. You didn’t have to. But I hope something here helps you see me differently—not as perfect, not as flawless—but as present, honest, and real. I’m your dad. I always have been. I always will be.

And I will love you until my last breath.

Dad