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Why this website exists

If I were to die tomorrow, no one could tell my story. My children would grow up not knowing that they had a father who loved them, and thought about them every day, and wanted very desperately to be a part of their lives.

This website exists because it’s a bonfire that no one can censor, fueled by a father’s love.

This website exists because I send my daughters flowers, and I never know if they’ve gotten them. For all I know, their mother throws them away. I send my daughters Amazon Gift Cards. I buy them presents from their Amazon Wish List. I send Gift Cards for their favorite restaurants. I send Sophia pajamas and silly things. I send Morey Drunk History videos and books on everything that interests her. I send heartfelt letters. I send e-mails. My mother sends them National Geographic subscriptions and birthday cards with cash, but there’s never a Thank You reply, or any reply at all.

I log into Skype, and wait for them to call at the appointed time. But they don’t call.

Some of the presents I bought my daughters (including a hand-carved chess set from Afghanistan) were carelessly thrown away, unused and never unwrapped. My daughters are trapped behind a firewall comprised of their vengeful mother, her scumbag lawyer and a corrupt Family Court system. I am denied my court-ordered visitation and Skype calls.

I have no idea if my daughters know that I’m out here, on the outside, trying urgently to reach them. They need to know I haven’t given up on them.

My daughter Sophia has very few memories of me. I’ve been gone most of her life. I missed her first words and first steps. She remembers bits and pieces of our time together. But memories fade. When she grows up, she’ll only have some vague memory of me. Or perhaps, none at all. She and I desperately need to make new memories together.

My daughter Morey is old enough, of course, to remember me. But she’ll become a young lady without me. She’ll grow up without the protection or influence of a father, but only with the influence of her mother’s friends and family, all of whom despise me. I’m sure they will tell her that I am worthless, only good for sending money once a month, and even then, not very good at that. Sperm Donor. Paycheck. Irredeemable piece of Yankee shit.

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Morey Alexandra Becker, Sophia Zander Grace Becker