The Letter From My Dad I Never Forgot

A Father's Day reflection on a handwritten letter, a father's wisdom, and the question that took me 30 years to answer.

Dear Reader,

For Father’s Day last year, I shared a letter my father wrote to me. This year, while reading through his folder of letters, I found another one that moved me.

It was dated December 7, 1995.

“The Family Cohen—what is its center? Does it have one? Does the center roll around from day-to-day? Birthdays are a good beginning—the center is the birth persons. At all other times, the center is the “issue.”

At the time, I was in my twenties, trying to figure out who I was and where I belonged. I was working at the University of Massachusetts Amherst in Admissions, writing about my grandfather, painting and selling silk scarves in a gallery, searching for my purpose, and, if I’m honest, spending a fair amount of time worrying about whether I was doing enough, achieving enough, becoming enough.

My father wrote:

“For these past two years, I guess, the issue has been you. Mom and I are asking each other endlessly: will she be happy? Will she look down and see the glow that we all see?”

I don’t remember receiving those words. Or maybe I did and simply wasn’t ready to hear them.

Dad saw the whole picture: my fears, my growth, and my striving. He understood that I was still in the middle of a process, moving from project to project, and for the first time, I felt like the “center” he described was finally beginning to hold.

“She has been successful at distinguishing among the things that are best for her versus the things that merely sustain her.”

At that age, I was focused on accomplishments. I measured myself by jobs, goals, and whether I was moving fast enough toward some undefined version of success. Happiness felt like something that would arrive later, after I had figured everything else out.

My parents saw something different.

They weren’t asking whether I would be successful. They weren’t wondering if I’d make money, publish books, or accumulate impressive credentials. They were wondering whether I’d be happy.

And perhaps even more touching, they were wondering whether I’d ever see in myself what they already saw in me. As parents, maybe that’s one of the hardest things. To see your child’s strengths before they do. To recognize their gifts while they remain stubbornly focused on their shortcomings.

Dad and me, circa 1995.

Thirty years later, I find myself returning to my father’s question: Will she look down and see the glow that we all see?

The answer, thankfully, is sometimes yes. Not always. I’m still human. I still compare. I still question. I still wonder whether I’ve done enough.

But age has a way of softening some of those edges. It has taught me that success is a moving target, while happiness often arrives in smaller, quieter forms: a handwritten letter, a bike ride, a conversation with a friend, a niece’s laugh, a reader’s email, a morning when the words come easily.

And perhaps that’s what my father was trying to tell me all along. Not that life would be perfect. Not that every dream would come true. But that there was already something there worth seeing.

This Father’s Day, I’m especially grateful for mine, who saw the glow long before I did.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you.

With love (and a little more glow),

P.S. If this brings anything up for you, maybe write a letter to (or simply write about) your father or a father figure who shaped you. Even a few lines might bring up a special memory.

P.P.S. For those who would like to read my father’s entire letter, scroll down.

P.P.P.S. After last week’s Substack about writing to your politician, my friend and fellow writer about letters, Elizabeth Cottrell, who writes the Substack Heartspoken, wrote this great piece on the same topic with helpful tips.

SONG OF THE WEEK

Letter To My Dad by Mar Monroe

Letter from My Father

December 7, 1995

Dear Felice,

You’ve got the makings of a novel there—and something else about human nature: why do we hate our fellow citizens when we have to stand next to them, sweaty and snarling on the local subway, but when we meet a fellow Bostonian or New Yorker in Brussels or Argentina, we look at them with patriotic hunger for their company. The Family Cohen—what is its center? Does it have one? Does the center roll around from day-to-day? Birthdays are a good beginning—the center is the birth persons. At all other times, the center is the “issue.” For these past two years, I guess, the issue has been you. Mom and I are asking each other endlessly: will she be happy? Will she look down and see the glow that we all see? (That doesn’t mean your umbilicus is glowing...) She has been successful at distinguishing among the things that are best for her versus the things that merely sustain her. I feel good about the slow and heaving and mighty sea that transports and lifts you, from island to island, into ever more temperate latitudes, as your strength and integrity grow. Yo, captain! (…Felice, by me, you’re also a cap’n.)

Love, Dad