Dearest Dad,
Only the two of us truly know how much bound us together and how much kept us apart. I really wanted to write a eulogy for your funeral, but knowing how straightforward and single-minded people can be, I concluded it would be a waste of time.
Following the advice of a kind friend, I am putting onto paper what has been weighing on my mind—things that wound or gladden my heart.
I want to be certain that not a single deeply buried splinter escapes me, and that I will finally feel free—forever—at least where you are concerned.
Let’s call this a letter, or perhaps a written monologue. Now you won’t be able to block me, because it would be too uncomfortable for you. Now, the umbilical cord we severed in the hospital no longer has any right to exist.
Rest in peace, and return in peace to sow a new peace.

 Even as a little girl, I loved playing games where you were my "little boy"; when you came home from work, I’d bring you bottled drinks and—feeling so pleased with myself—ask which glass you wanted to use and what you’d like to drink. I remember the day—I was just three years old—when I was literally dragging two-liter bottles of Fanta and Sprite behind me, only to experience rejection from you for the first time. You extinguished my heavenly smile because you had no time for me, preferring instead to engage in polite small talk with someone—I don’t even remember who—while I had been so focused on trying to make you proud of me. Whenever you’d follow such a brush-off with an "Oh, Adusia..." upon seeing my crestfallen face, I would forgive you—time and time again, right up until the final day of your sad life.
For the past few days, I’ve been trying to recall childhood memories of times we spent together—good times—because there was so much more of the bad, though fortunately, that turned out to be for the best in the end. The fondest memory that comes to mind is riding with you in your truck to the gravel pit. After all, back when you were starting out, we used to go on those trips together. I remember the red colour of the Tatra truck, the incredibly loud sound of the engine, the driver’s seat that lifted up on its own, and the hot engine—covered in some kind of material to prevent burns—sitting between our seats, where I used to sleep when I got tired. We played together only once, in the sand at the gravel pit, during one of your downtimes. I remember it was early summer; the sand was dry and felt lovely against my skin. You gave me a wooden parquet panel, and I tried to sand its surface until it was perfectly smooth. I was four years old then. I also recall how rarely the two of us attended Sunday Mass; you usually took me there after an argument with Mom. I didn't understand why we were there or why everyone was watching everyone else; I didn't feel like we were there because we wanted to be, and I didn't really like it, but I wanted you to be happy—because I always understood more than I should have. I was too young to understand 
You didn't explain it to me because you saw me as a little kid who only had eyes for the lollipops at the stalls. I was also too young to understand that this was your way of falsely atoning for your sins—by leaning on that poor, unsuspecting child.
 Sometimes Mom, you and I would go to the park to look at the animals in the zoo. She never really wanted to participate; I know now that she just wanted you all to herself, though I still don't quite understand it. Both of you never should have any kids and animals.
I also remember peeing on your lap from laughing so hard when you tickled my ribs in the morning. I was little, yet I still remember the feeling of uncontrollable laughter and that warm little stream to this day. We were all laughing—even Mom. That was probably the end of our carefree times, though; I am very grateful for that moments, Even if they laid the groundwork for blind love, thanks to that I know how deeply and naively I am capable of loving, and that I can truly forgive.
A few months later, when you were drunk at Auntie’s place and tickling me, your hand slid down to my crotch. I didn’t like it, so I ran away. You chased me until the guests started telling you to leave me alone and let me play with the other kids. I remembered about it always, but I was such in shame, because of you, that I pretended, as I don't.
  Later on, your company grew so much that you disappeared for good, showing up only every now and then.
I was already in my first year of preschool when Mom announced she was pregnant. I wasn’t happy about it at all; I cried. I was afraid you wouldn’t care about me at all, but things worked out somehow. Back then, I only saw you on weekends because Mom was the one who drove me to and from preschool. I loved my preschool; to this day, I remember the teachers and the time Ms. Mirka shared the secret that you should always start a puzzle by assembling the border first. Now I know I am really lucky girl, because I got from foreign people all, what I should get from my parents. By age five, I was reading fluently while others were still stumbling over words, and you always called me "Adusia-Madrusia" in front of other people. At least there was that. I don’t remember Mom very well, except that she acted unnaturally around others—a habit she’s kept to this day. She was likely involved in my life, but jealousy kept her from doing anything more than the bare minimum. I remember when you started building that villa near the woods; Mom would carefully prepare your lunches and—dressed up to the nines—would rush from Grandma’s house to the construction site with a basket to feed you. I’d tag along behind her. From that time, the only other thing I recall is the view from the window—a huge truck filled with marble tiles—and how excited you both were, convinced there wouldn’t be another house like it in the entire area. If you had thought a little more deeply back then, you would have returned those tiles; instead of working to afford those unnecessary luxuries, you could have been with your family... But that’s just how the *nouveaux riches* are.
That marks the end of our chapter at the house on Księżycowa Street with Grandma Irena. The best time of my life—almost the only good time.
When we moved to the house by the woods, everything felt cold and vast—you and Mom included. 
I remember every Sunday lunch at your parents’ place—I can still recall the feeling of dread during the drive there; Grandma would make me do all the chores, while you and your siblings vied for your grandfather’s approval. Everyone was afraid of grandpa, include you. He was rude and had a stupid jokes. I am sure He hit you at every opportunity, and the force he used was far beyond what was appropriate for your age. Is that why you couldn't cry until the moment you fell ill? Sometimes I wonder what he did to you to make you shut down all positive emotions... I’m sorry, Dad. That is also why I forgive you. I just don’t understand why, despite having such painful memories, you didn’t try to resolve your problems in any way other than through fear and shouting... I think you used the method that worked best for you, but I am certain you remember the time, when I was fourteen, that you punched me in the face because I talked back instead of staying quiet. I handed you a knife then and asked you to kill me, telling you that your behavior hurt me more than the punch did. That was the day you sank below sea level.
One Sunday, a tall guy appeared at the family table—he had the same first name as you—but I disliked him from the very first moment, even though he never said a single word to me. Uncle, Grandpa, you, and that buddy of yours were sitting in the living room, debating some business matter—something about a tender and the Gypsies. That’s all I picked up, because you kept shooing me away; everyone in the family knew I could multitask and had a good memory, so no one wanted to talk in front of me... well...Who talks business over Sunday dinner?!
I remember one Sunday when you came back from the market near Warsaw, all excited, telling us to come out to the yard. Iga wasn't walking yet—she wasn't even a year old—so Mom carried her everywhere, while I bottled up my first feelings of loneliness. A silver car was parked in the yard—a sporty-looking one. I think I was the only one who truly understood how happy you were about it, because I always wished you the best. It was your first luxury car, and it had a powerful engine—unlike the little Toyota Corolla you’d had at the start. Yes, cars were your passion; you took photos of them instead of your children and unfortunately all your life you lived for show. 
One day, we all went for a walk to that new place of you, the tall guy, and Uncle had opened. We walked through the woods—Iga wasn't with us, just you, Mom, and me. Along the way, I was eating caramel candies from Grandma Irena—the ones from that "Everyone Is Someone Special" series. Delicious!
It was dark when we got there. A man in a white coat opened the door for us and introduced himself as the cook. There was a bar, too—colored lights, a DJ booth, a platform with a pole reaching the ceiling, and lots of mirrors. I didn't understand any of it; I just know Mom didn't like the waitresses—she kept scoffing at the one behind the bar. You were discussing the menu, while I explored every inch of that hellhole, eventually wrapping up the visit with a dance—on the pole, naturally, and feeling incredibly proud of myself.
Some time later, everyone—including the preschool teachers—knew you owned the town’s first nightclub. Sometimes, when you picked me up from preschool wearing that new, beautifully polished leather jacket, I got the impression they were all wetting themselves—out of fear and a hint of arousal. Do you think I only figured that out now? No, Dad; I had that same thought back when you were picking me up. You were always smiling and so proud of yourself, but even then, I could sense what was real and what wasn’t. Even then, I felt sad. Even then, a sadness would settle in the moment the car door clicked shut, because your smile would vanish and we couldn't speak—because you couldn't hear your own thoughts. 
I was six years old—it was summer, just before I started first grade—and all I recall is you, Mom, and me in yet another one of your red cars, arriving at this strange place where the houses looked like wooden shipping containers. When you stopped in the middle, everyone came out of those little houses to welcome us. They looked different from us—darker skin and black hair, though a few had lighter complexions. They were friendly—I still remember some of them, the women and children included. They were Gypsies—specifically, the settlement of the Gypsy King in the Podlasie region. The women wore only skirts, which surprised me, and they were incredibly hospitable. They called me a "little Gypsy girl"—for obvious reasons—and invited us inside. I still remember how amazed I was; the interiors of those wooden shacks were fit for royalty. Everything was spotless, decked out in gold, and there was so much food. Since your brotherly friendship lasted a good few years—and I was your sidekick—I also saw their real villas. Urban palaces for people leading double lives. I never liked it.
 You got absolutely wasted that day. Mom got furious and said we’d leave you there and go back home. She told me to get in the car, and I remember view from behind the window while you were arguing. Suddenly, she got into the car and started the engine. She lurched forward, and for the first time in my life, I had a panic attack. I nearly kicked the passenger seat to pieces; I was screaming and crying, begging her not to leave you behind—my eyes well up with tears just thinking about it now.
She stopped the car, reversed, and I remember exactly what she said: "You love that father of yours—let's see does he loves you." A moment later, she got out and came back with you. You weren't in good shape, but you said you loved me very much. You always said that when you were drunk; as I got older, I realized that when you were sober, the words just wouldn't cross your lips.
That was how I found out you’d become blood brothers with the Gypsies, and from then on, things went from bad to worse, without accusing nobody.
Mom started acting strangely—at first occasionally, then every day. She had an irritating way of speaking, almost like a lisp. She smelled bad. The house was a mess, and I remember her feet—always black with dirt. Iga started walking—or rather, I remember her running around naked in just a diaper, never wanting to get dressed, and Mom letting her do it in the name of freedom. Mom was constantly on the phone with Iga right beside her, while I sat doing homework or reading. I remember that lunch was usually fish fingers and tomato soup—a soup so sour it reminded me of vomit, and I never wanted to eat it. Mom once poured it down the back of my shirt, and from then on, I knew she couldn't stand me. I never told anyone about this, but Mom used to scare me with spiders—just like you did when you trapped them in glasses—and whenever there was water in the pool, she would actually hold me under, though she pretended it was just for fun. I didn't say anything because I didn't want you to hit her. Besides, when I refused to eat milk soup for breakfast, the two of you beat me with some kind of rod; that was when I stopped trusting you—at least from a child's perspective.
I missed my daddy, but you rarely showed up at home; you’d often collapse in the hallway onto your marble floors and fall asleep right there. In the morning, my sister and I would tiptoe around like little mice so as not to wake you—once, Mom even yelled at me for bringing you a pillow. I don't blame her now, because I remember asking, then begging you to wake up, but you wouldn't budge. I’d try even harder, forcibly lifting your head, but you were so stiff and heavy. Eventually, I gave up. I sensed something was wrong. We started to hide behind couches with Iga, when you were back home. I don't know why. I just can figure out we were ashamed of something, because it wasn't hide and sick.
 I’d be woken up at night by the TV downstairs and the clinking of coins as Mom counted them. One night, she simply left us and drove off somewhere. My heart was pounding like a hammer and I felt a wave of heat, terrified that little Iga might wake up... she was sleeping in the other room, and it’s so dark near that forest, and the house is so huge and cold. Where were you, Daddy, when your seven-year-old daughter had to look after her one-and-a-half-year-old sister in the middle of the night—a sister who wouldn't stop crying? If I were you, I wouldn't be surprised—the way you usually were—that I turned out to be hypersensitive. Mom would come back after—at a guess—half an hour, usually. The hangover was catching up with her, and she was scraping together loose change for alcohol. By then, I knew she was drinking, and I found her simply repulsive. She would lie whenever I pointed out how she was walking, and I couldn't stand it when she suddenly wanted to hold my hand, because I knew ...that she was drunk. I used to feel ashamed when my classmates came over. I always tried to come up with excuses to keep them away, but everyone kept saying we were rich and that they had to see our house.
As for a people with the money, the children's rooms were poorly equipped—no books, no toys. Just a TV to keep us quiet. I remember that until I was thirteen, the TV had to be on all the time, even while I was doing my homework—even when we were living with your second wife, after Mom was gone.
That was a time—back when I was in first grade—when you two fought constantly. I’d wake up in the morning and see blood on the marble floor. Mom would have bruises under her eyes; she’d wear sunglasses when she went out. Whenever I asked what happened, she’d get angry and scream at me to ask *you*—my dear daddy. The first time things turned physical—right in front of us, while we were fully aware of what was happening—it was in the afternoon. You were eating lunch, and Mom was provoking you with nasty remarks. Iga and I were sitting on chairs off to the side in the kitchen—no toys, just the TV playing in the living room. Suddenly, you jumped up and started calling her a fucking bitch. Then you shoved her. It all happened so fast... She got up and walked straight toward you, so she got hit again. This time, she ended up curled up on the marble floor, crying. I took my sister and we went into the living room. I was afraid to ask you about what happened that day; I didn't want to make you angry. I thought I’d do it tomorrow, because tomorrow would be a new day. The next day was the same. The day after that, too. And every day after that. One time I came home from school and found Mom with braces on her teeth; she simply said you’d broken her jaw. That was when I decided I would never let my children witness things like that. When you told her you couldn't handle her anymore and beat her, I understood perfectly that shouting and violence are signs of weakness.
I think my daughter is so wonderful because I do everything differently than the way you treated us. You took the path of least resistance, Dad.
During the summer holidays, you took me to Leszczewo. Mom didn’t want to go, but I really did. We sped along in your car; I wasn’t scared at all, and I couldn’t wait until I’d have a driver’s license of my own.Till the last months of your life, the cars, were only one subject about you love to talk and I was studying car's magazines together with you and your friends near every occasion. I wanted to be the best in that subject, I wanted to hear just one fucking time, how much you are proud of me. 
From that trip, I only remember the little river, Aunt Małgosia, and begging the sun to come out. There were crayfish in the water and a walk through the woods to the lake. It was fun.
Coming back from our excursions wasn’t exactly pleasant. I remember you taking me everywhere. Out for beer with your buddies, to your club at night—where I watched naked strippers—and to your mistress’s place, where I had to sleep in the same bed as you two; I’m still traumatized by that to this day. I even went with you to visit the Gypsies at night and you let me watch from the car charging at people with baseball bats and guns. How could you put me at risk like that? Why, instead of saving Mom and getting away for six months or longer, did you choose the life of a wannabe gangster? You always told me you had no choice. That’s bullshit.
I remember driving home in your black BMW after visiting the Gypsies—it was early morning. You were drunk, and I told you we should order a taxi, but you kept saying you were a professional driver and could get home with your eyes closed. I didn't cry; I believed you, and we made it home, but I am a mother now and I have no idea, how dared you do it.
You let for Gypsies to choose me a husband, when I was 8 years old.

One day, during grill party an uncle asked why you were taking me everywhere with you;
I felt really hurt by what he said, because I’d already seen so much and learned quickly—I thought of those people as my friends, too, especially since you let me call them by their first names. After that day, I only went places with you sporadically.
 I remember how mom was picking up the "death phones" and how your mistress sent us by taxi dirty lingerie.
Later came divorce. I was honestly happy about it. I felt relieved that I wouldn't have to listen to or watch that anymore. I want you to know that my worst childhood memory is the time you locked Iga and me in the bathroom while we were bathing and beat Mom. You hit her so hard I could hear every impact of your fist against her face. She was screaming so hard for you to let her go, and I couldn't scream or do a thing. You son of a bitch. I thought you’d killed her when the screaming suddenly stopped, and I remember I started singing. That’s stayed with me to this day.
When the key finally turned in the lock after what felt like an eternity, Mom opened the door a crack and told me to dress Iga and take her to my room to sleep. She wouldn't step into the bathroom. I felt my legs turn to jelly. I can feel it even now. I did as she said and turned off the light; a moment later, Mom came in, said she was going to the hospital, and claimed nothing had happened. I jumped out of bed and turned on the light. My legs felt even weaker than they had in the bathroom, because Mom’s nose was flattened, and where her eyes should have been, there were only eyelids. You son of a bitch.
Iga was at Grandma’s with Mom, while I was with you—meaning I was alone, day and night, almost all the time. I survived because there was a TV, but I was terrified of spiders and thunderstorms. You had a mobile phone back then, and I’d call you while you were at the gym—it was your daily evening routine—but you wouldn’t pick up... I’d hide under a kitchen chair, and the marble floor was freezing cold. What did I eat back then? Cornflakes, I think. Ha! I’ve just realized that was my first instance of stress-eating.
It was summer; I was nine years old. There were drinking sessions at our house, and you’d always tell me to bring out the plates. Sometimes it went on for three days or more, leaving me alone with a bunch of drunk men. I don’t know why Mom didn’t come to get me. My God, this is the first time I’m remembering it all so clearly, and I’ve got goosebumps—I’m asking myself: where was the rest of the family?!
I learned from an overheard conversation that your nickname was "Shark" and that no other gangster could beat you at arm-wrestling.Poor fact to get proud of. I’d take my bike and go for a ride along Romantyczna Street. I remember a beautiful pink sunset and how I’d pray—crying—for you to finally stop drinking. You could be mean after those binges; if I asked questions, you’d tell me I was too young to stick my nose in. Things calmed down later. The police came and searched the whole house. Suddenly, you stopped going to the club and only drove your truck, but I was still alone. I remember having only one pair of panties and one pair of white tights. I used to wash it every day with a bar of soap so I’d have a clean one for the next day. How the fuck could you do this to me?
Now there’s a total blank in my memory until the moment you took me to the pub and introduced me to your girlfriend—who would soon become your second wife. That was the first time you took me to a fairground—with your girlfriend and her daughter, of course. That killer carousel ride made me feel sick, but it was fun because we were together. My stomach hurt when we got home, so I went to bed. I woke up stark naked in your bed, with no idea why or what had happened. To this day, I don’t know if I’d thrown up on myself during the night or if this is grounds to suspect you of molestation. I told about it for mom a few years ago and she shocked me, because she said: "Maybe he made a mistake....". You both were worth each other this time.
Anka seemed too nice right from the start; she always knew the right thing to say. She had a daughter my age—poor girl, always stuck at home alone—but we never became friends because Ewelina had a lower IQ than me; 
not to put her down, she just wasn't my type of person, though she was bearable. You often drove me over to their place when you were away on multi-day trips. I got used to the good life there: she always had dinner cooked using your money, took us shopping at trendy stores, and we’d eat pizza together; and even though I thoroughly dislike her, it’s thanks to her that I didn't end up caked in filth.
 I always did well in school, so unfortunately, my academic achievements didn't impress you; Very often I heard from you that I should loose some weight and you were talking about it near your friends. I was eating then more and after I was crying.
 I often wondered what I had to do to get you to praise me, but you didn't have a time to worry about a good things. 
 Life for a moment were calmer then. I made new friends near Ewelina’s building—it was fun. Anka’s friends would come over after work, so we felt like little grown-ups. But I soon got bored with that life; I felt trapped in it, and I felt that woman was only with you because you were rich. That was your choice—in that respect, we certainly aren't alike.
Then, out of the blue, you announced that Anka and Ewelina were moving in with us—out by the woods. I felt nothing. We each had our own room and privacy, though it was a shame Dad wasn't around, and I always had to do what Anka wanted; otherwise, she’d emotionally blackmail me by giving me the silent treatment. I’d have to grovel then... like paying for a blouse she wanted from a boutique (I had my money, thanks to Grandma Irenka looking out for me). You even switched my school so I could help Ewelina with her homework—a low blow, truly—but I managed to find my footing. Iga came back, too. She used bad language and was mean, but she was my own flesh and blood. Somehow, things were falling into place, yet a chasm opened up between us—it was as if you’d forgotten we existed and just wanted to stuff our mouths with money to keep us quiet. Mom would come by, but you wouldn't let her in. She was knocking to the doors sometimes even one hour and you never let me open. I was going to my bed, putting a pillow on my head and was screaming. You have no idea what I felt then—I was too young to understand it all. I forgive you for all of it, though; you lost your way back then, and everything eventually came back to haunt you with double the force.
 We had to move because there was a business deal to be made and the house had to be sold. We went to live with Grandma. It wasn't exactly luxurious, but at least it was quiet—a sort of stagnation. Mom was already abroad, so only Grandma Irenka would visit once a week—which was odd, considering she lived literally around the corner. I know now that she had no money and didn't want to show up empty-handed. Apparently, you didn't even give Mom money for food, so Grandma used to sell currants from her garden outside the local shop just so they’d have something to eat. I have no words to describe it.

Grandma used to argue with your girlfriend, so we moved into her apartment. Everything would have been fine, but—supposedly because I was beautiful and smart—local boys kept playing pranks by constantly ringing the intercom. Your girlfriend would bring this up every time you got back from a trip, painting me out to be some kind of slut; meanwhile, being hypersensitive, I’d just cry because I couldn't get the words out.
Iga didn't have it easy, either. She didn't have a knack for schoolwork and often had to kneel in the corner with her arms raised. Some discipline! I knew if will do something, everything will get worst. You didn't want to listen. I slowly began to hate Anka. I told you she was destroying us mentally, but you wouldn't listen. You have no idea how different all our lives would have been if you had listened.
I think I started suffering from depression when I was twelve. I didn’t want to go home after school; I did everything I could to stay at activities as long as possible, and coming home felt like a punishment. On top of that, I shared a room with Ewelina, and we had absolutely nothing in common—she always picked out pink clothes, while I preferred a more masculine style.
Anka couldn't handle Iga—true, Iga was ruthless and rude, but it wasn't her fault. You always said it was down to Mom's genes, but you played a big part in it too. Iga would be 32 today.

We had to move out of Anka’s place because... you had us.

Now, it was just the two of us for good.
You’d come over in the morning to drive Iga to preschool, and then Grandma would bring her home. That was when I learned to cook. You bought two cookbooks, and I—like an idiot—just cooked instead of actually learning. I think living with you and your wives is what gave me neurosis, bulimia, and depression. Iga started to drink when I escaped for high school to Grandma.

Came the trip to the brickyard—to that "golden business" of yours that left you penniless.
Life was pretty good, until you started sending me off to Gdańsk to your friend, who found me a weekend job at local gym. You were so blind...
On my first evening at his place, I was very withdrawn. I didn't want to speak, eat, or drink because I felt awkward being in an apartment with a man I didn't know. I had my own room. Later that evening, I turned on the TV, and he came in to ask if he could join me, adding that he had no intention of getting under the covers. I agreed. He was naturally talkative—he just kept talking and talking—and I couldn't wait for him to leave my room. I was hungry, tired, and thirsty, and the next morning was my first day working at a gym owned by a famous Polish boxer. Suddenly, he asked if I wanted a drink—suggesting he could make me some fizzy multivitamin water. I said I’d love one. He came back a moment later with a glass, and naturally, I downed it in just a couple of gulps. I came to while he was raping me, but I couldn't move or make a sound—I was completely paralyzed.

The beginning of a paralysis of life — Adusia, almost 16 years old.
This man raped me week after week for almost 8 months and used manipulation to make me to give up, but that’s a story for another post.
 I told you about it when I was 34; I never had the courage before because I never believed you would believe me. You didn't make a single comment—it was as if you literally already knew.

When I moved in with Grandma during high school, we barely spoke—maybe three times in total. The last time was when I made my first suicide attempt and was being saved. I don’t know how you ended up there, but you should have come much sooner. You should have known that someone who truly wants to kill themselves will always try a second time.

I never understood why you sent Iga away to live with me and Grandma. Now I know you couldn't handle her and dumped the problem on me—a high school student. After I got married, I had two daughters; one of them was my sister. For six years, Iga’s addictions wreaked havoc on my life—both then and later. You just assumed I’d somehow hold it together... My daughter was just a few months old when Iga brought scabies into the house; all of us, the infant included, spent our nights scratching, unable to sleep. Meanwhile, you were raising your son—who, for the rest of your life, only contacted you when he needed money. After your divorce and remarriage, you took Iga to the States and let her hit rock bottom. I heard you wouldn't spend the money on rehab.

Do you remember how I cried, telling you my husband was abusing me and I was worried about my daughter? I begged you so hard to fly over and help me... You never came. What did you actually achieve through that work—which was always just a pretext and an excuse? Did it save you from cancer and death? Was it just your way of running away from your problems? Why did you never want to explain this to me? Why didn't you feel guilty, or at least responsible?
May God forgive you.

I loved you too much, yet at the same time, I didn't like you.
I view our time in the hospital as a form of cleansing. I am deeply sorry that you wasted your life, and I am glad to be free from your influence and your problems. It feels as though a curse has been lifted from me.
Right now, I cannot say whether I cried because I wanted to shoulder your suffering myself, or because my soul could sense the hell you were going through. I also cried because you had potential and squandered it—just as you squandered your wives, your daughter, your fortune, your memories, and everything else, one by one.
I have no idea where such a strong bond between us came from—that damned shared emotional burden—but today I attribute it to genetics, just as you used to do.
Know that I am closing the darkest chapter of my life and, in doing so, beginning to rebuild Adrianna. I have a tremendous amount of support, and although you never told me you were proud of me, know that I am proud of myself.
 I hope that when you return to earth again, you won't view life and people through the prism of possessions. I hope you learn to love yourself and stop running away from problems. I hope you simply live.

with peace, Adrianna