My relations with my father were difficult from the very beginning. And not only because he drank too much. When I was born, he even denied for a while that I was his daughter. This attempt was unsuccessful, if only because I am the spitting image of him, and my mother was never involved with another man.
When I was five years old, my parents divorced. The blame for this lay not only in my father’s alcoholism, but also in his unwillingness to have a family, raise a child, and fulfill the role of the head of the household.
The photo was generated using AI
My memories of my father are fragmented. He visited me maybe two or three times when I was in the first grade: he would pick me up after school, buy me ice cream and a doll, and then walk me home. Once, we agreed that he would come for me on a specific day of the week. But I fell sick that day and did not go to school. My teacher later told me that he had come, but I was not there. I do not know if he was upset or not. Back in the 1990s, we had no cell phones to call and talk. And I remember very well—and now, as a mother of two, I truly understand—how hard it was for my mother to raise me all by herself in those years, to educate me, and to provide the best possible opportunities for my development: music school, books, theater season tickets, and buying a computer.
My father died when I was eighteen. After elementary school I only saw him once—when I was about fourteen, down at the pier. I noticed a lonely, drunk, homeless man sitting on a bench, and then I realized it was my father. I was with a group of friends. Overwhelmed by fear and shame, I pretended not to know him. For many years after that, I carried on an internal dialogue: should I have approached him, talked to him and offered help? Could I have even made the right choice at that age, rather than just walking away? And what do I actually feel toward him? Resentment, anger, hatred? I have read a lot about forgiveness from a Christian perspective; I understood the theory of it, but I just could not truly feel and process it in my heart.
My father was buried in an unmarked grave as a homeless person without documents. My mother and I still have no idea where he was laid to rest. We only learned about his death several months later from his former colleagues—fellow journalists. Back in his youth, my father was a true master of the written word and one of the most talented reporters in our region. I ended up following in his footsteps. It happened naturally: I suppose his love for writing was passed down to me. It is such a tragedy that his alcoholism destroyed him.
I was thirty-three when I gave birth to my second son and was freelancing as a copywriter during my maternity leave. That was when I received that very message: “Please help me write a letter to my daughter. I abandoned her after she was born, twenty-three years ago, and now I want to ask for forgiveness, but I just cannot find the right words,” Alexei wrote to me.
His profile picture showed a man in his mid-fifties wearing a camouflage hunting suit, holding what appeared to be freshly shot game. I clicked through to his profile and discovered he was a highly successful businessman who ran a local hunting and fishing tourism enterprise. Alexei had a large house and an expensive car—on the surface, a well-off and stable life. I could barely restrain myself from turning him down right then and there. “What forgiveness? Your daughter did not know her own father for twenty-three years, and her mother had to raise the girl all on her own!” flashed through my mind. It hit close to home. Yet, my hands hesitated to type a response. Instead, I decided to find out what had actually happened and what the real story was.
Alexei replied with simple phrases, but they carried a sort of pure sincerity. “I was young, foolish, and terrified of responsibility. I made mistakes, then focused on building my business, and now I have realized that none of this matters without the most important thing. So, while I am still alive, I want to ask forgiveness. Not necessarily to be forgiven, but just to say it out loud so that my daughter may know it. But I have no idea how to put it into words.”
Alexei and I wrote this letter together. He spoke, and I wrote it down. He shared his thoughts, and I wove them into a seamless text. I was doing what I do best, a gift inherited from my father. And in that moment, I remembered him too. I thought that all men are liars (Ps. 115:2), that we all make mistakes, and as long as we are alive, we have the right to repentance.
I do not know what my father was thinking about before he died. Perhaps, like Alexei, he repented, wanted to meet, but ran out of time, could not do it, or simply could not find the courage. As I was writing about Alexei, I realized that my father had every right to those same feelings. It was as if I stepped into the shoes of someone who had made mistakes and desperately wanted to change everything before it was too late. Even if the recipient does not reply, the Lord sees the heart and knows everything.
And while writing this apology on behalf of one man, I internally let go of all resentment toward another—my father. As Metropolitan Anthony (Bloom) of Sourozh used to say: “To forgive does not mean to forget. To forgive means to look at a person as they are, in their sin, in their unbearableness, and say, ‘I will carry you like a cross; I will bring you to the Kingdom of God, whether you want it or not, whether you are good or bad. I will take you on my shoulders and bring you to the Lord and say, “Lord, I have carried this person all my life because I could not bear to see him perish. Now, forgive them for the sake of my forgiveness.’”
Now, I pray for my father and hold no grudges. I am also raising two sons, one of whom is the spitting image of his grandfather. My husband and I are doing our best to raise them to be real men.
As for Alexei… I do not know exactly what his daughter wrote back in response to our joint letter, but a couple of weeks later, he sent me warm words of gratitude and said he was doing well. I hope that is still the case today.
