When my 7-year-old daughter, Maren, came home in tears, saying her teacher told her I regretted having her,
I was furious.
I stormed into school, heart pounding, ready to demand answers. But the teacher didn’t meet me with defensiveness — instead, she calmly reached into her drawer and handed me a crumpled piece of paper.
My world tilted.
It was in my handwriting. A note I had written during a breakdown weeks earlier — never meant for anyone to see — that read: “Some days I wish I never had her.”
I stared at it in horror. Maren had unknowingly packed it in her lunch. My shame was instant and overwhelming.
That note didn’t reflect the truth of how I felt. I love my daughter more than anything. That sentence came from a moment of exhaustion, not from my heart.
I found Maren in the hallway and dropped to my knees in front of her. Tears spilled as I apologized right there in the open, telling her the truth — that I had been overwhelmed, not by her, but by life. Work. Bills. Grief. Loneliness.
She looked at me, eyes glassy, and asked, “Do you really wish you didn’t have me?”
My heart cracked open. “Never,” I whispered. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I just didn’t know how to ask for help.”
That day changed everything.
I started therapy. Took time off work. Called in every bit of support I’d always been too proud to accept. I learned how to rest, how to speak up, and how to show up better.
Slowly, Maren began to bloom again — drawing pictures, humming songs, slipping little notes into my lunchbox now. “You got this, Dad!” one said, with a wobbly smiley face.
Her teacher later pulled me aside. “She called you her hero today,” she said, smiling, and handed me a drawing: Me in a cape, arms wide open, with the caption: “My dad makes mistakes. But he always tries again.”
Life is still messy. There are late mornings, burned dinners, and too many unfolded clothes. But I’ve learned that our children don’t need perfection. They need our presence, our honesty, and our effort.
To any parent quietly unraveling: you are not failing. You are human. Your best — even when it’s imperfect — is still enough.
