The two of you are, without a shadow of a doubt, my heart... and the only true and accurate worth of my existence. As I write this letter, I picture you in my minds eye; two handsome, strapping young men in the last throes of a passionate and wilful adolescence and eager to step into your roles as adult men. Troll 1, I see how strong and defined your jaw has become, and Troll 2, your eyes, although less naïve, are still the biggest pools of liquid coffee I have ever seen. The two of you, no longer cry over scrapes and bruises, or fight over who gets the bigger piece of birthday cake... but there is one part of your hearts and minds I would like to address... a part I know, which has barely seen enough fresh air or had enough antiseptic ointment to properly heal.
You might have been too young to remember this, but somewhere in 2012, we all moved to the farm for a couple of months. It was a radical and completely courageous decision made by your aunt and I, who were hell-bent of providing a shot of adventure into our daily lives... and the two of you had the most incredible time getting up to all kinds of mischief. The house we moved into, an incredible piece of German architecture of over a hundred years old, once belonged to my father, your grandfather. You guys donít remember him, because he passed on early on in your lives, but he is both the reason and the inspiration I decided to pen this post dated letter to you. My father, much like yours, was absent. Like yours, he didnít want me. Like yours, I didnít see it coming... and like yours, I spent years and years in anger. I despised him for being a callous coward, and cried myself to sleep... hoping, praying, begging God to make him change his mind and love me as I loved him. I was adamant that I would live a life where I would not care about a man who could not care about me. When he drew his last breath in 2008, I felt numb; like I was saying goodbye to a stranger.
I know that in your hearts there is a hole, a dark, fiery hole which if you let it foster, will consume your lives with rage and hatred. as a mother I now, hope, pray and beg... that God gives me the opportunity to help you mend it.
The other day, I found an old black and white baby picture of mine amongst his things. I was startled as I never knew that he kept it. The picture, as old as 1985...is beautifully preserved. In it, I sit; chubby, happy... my eyes brimming with joy. For the first time ever... I saw him in me. My chubby hands, are your chubby hands Troll 2. And they are my fatherís. My eyes, those black pools, are yours Troll 1. And they are my fatherís.
Before the heartache... there was innocence. Not every moment, not every situation, not every part of him in me... was ugly.
And, the same is true of your father. Please, do not hate him. Please do not spend your lives drowning in hatred. Please do not go searching for answers in drugs, pain or disease. Know that in you, he lives. And that, that is okay. It was meant to be. It was as God wanted it. And even though as a father he might have failed you... you received the best possible part of him. And that part... is and always will be, part of the men you are and will become. I am so proud of you.
Love always, Mommy