My 7-year-old daughter came home crying.
Her teacher told her, “Your dad must regret having you!” I was furious.
I went to confront the teacher.
She looked at me calmly and asked, “Have you even checked your daughter’s bag?”
I froze when she showed me a crumpled note.
It was written in my handwriting—messy and rushed, but there was no doubt it was mine.
“Some days I wish I never had her. I can’t do this anymore.”
I felt like the air had been knocked out of me.
The teacher didn’t yell or judge. She simply said, “I thought you should know this was in her lunchbox today. She read it to the class.”
I was speechless. My mouth went dry. I had no memory of writing that—but standing there, a dull ache started in my chest, guilt surfacing from somewhere deep inside.
The teacher’s voice softened. “Kids notice more than we think.”
That note… I had written it weeks ago during a breakdown. After working double shifts, struggling with bills, my car breaking down, and learning that my ex-wife might move states with her new boyfriend. I was exhausted, angry, and alone.
I scribbled that on the back of an envelope one night after putting Maren—my daughter—to bed. I never meant for anyone to read it. Especially not her.
But I remembered then—the same envelope had been on the kitchen counter. She must have grabbed it by mistake while packing her lunch. Her little fingers always eager to help.
That night, I watched her sleep—arms stretched out like a starfish, her favorite stuffed rabbit tucked under her chin.
Those words in the note didn’t reflect how I truly felt. Not even close.
I love that girl more than anything. But I hadn’t been showing it. Not lately.
The next morning, I asked the school for a meeting—with Maren, Mrs. Linton, and the school counselor.