The Budget of Paradox

Sophia,
I’m a little worried about you. I finally got access to your school records. Last week, every day, I got an e-mail saying you were absent from school. Of course, I don’t know why. Maybe you’re sick. Maybe your mom sent you to Hawaii. I wish I knew. I hope you’re okay.

I want to call you on Christmas, but I don’t know where you are or which number to use. I e-mailed your mom, but so far, she won’t answer.

I know she thinks (and maybe she’s convinced you, too) that I’m some horrible monster who shouldn’t have access to his own children. But if you take the time to listen to her reasoning, you’ll see she has no evidence of anything. All of the lingering stink comes from her and her lawyer. No teacher ever said I was a bad parent, no therapist, no doctor, no counselor, no judge, no court… no one. No one ever said I was a bad father. In fact, your Aunt Kimberly testified at my divorce hearing and had nothing bad to say about me. Before he died, Papa Bear liked me. At least, he did when I knew him. Nana Lee liked me, or seemed to. She always invited me into her house and never said I was a bad father.

This idea that I’m a horrible father came from your mom and her lawyer…. but only after we disagreed about money in the divorce. Only then did the stories start emerging: stories that make no sense. When I had my security clearance upgraded, your mom was happy to tell the government that I was trustworthy and reliable. But after arguing about money, she claimed I was violent and crazy. Okay, I’m violent and crazy, but during our divorce, she let me take you and Morey overnight, unsupervised. Your mom even invited me to your house to have dinner with all of you during the divorce. But still, she expected the judge and everyone else to believe her story that I was violent and crazy and a dangerous father.

This whole situation is so cruel and pointless. You’re my daughter. We should be together, especially on holidays. We should be in each other’s lives. Instead, your mom is holding on to some retarded lie her lawyer invented. A lawyer, who, by the way, is now long gone. The lawyer threw a hand grenade into our lives, carelessly let it explode, then walked away. She doesn’t care about the destruction she caused.

Do you have any memory at all of me hurting you? Hitting you? Slapping you? Abandoning you? Shaking you? Yelling at you? Of course not. It never happened. I never even spanked you. Morey has no such memories, either. On the contrary, I went to great lengths to make your life better. And to make you laugh. And let you feel love and grow and be smart.

I miss you terribly. I hope I can reach you on Christmas Day.

I love you,
Dad

attorney Betsy Phillips of Rustburg you horrible cunt. i hope you die painfully and slowly. suck my cock you ugly bitch. if there is a God in Heaven, surely you will burn in Hell. You hurt children. That’s Nazi-level shit. You are the reason there are metal detectors at the courthouse entrance. Hopefully someday you’ll piss off a father with less restraint than me and you’ll get what you deserve. My Senior Partner BHP myseniorpartnerbhp.com