You ripped apart my family, you broke my father, you broke my grandmother, you broke me. Just by leaving.

But you feed me. You are usually there for me. Sometimes you’ve got a “thing”, which to me only means that you’re at the bar and too embarrassed to admit it. But you’ve never endangered my life with your stupid habits. You show some self-control, at least around me.

I can’t believe you left. And you didn’t go far. But you left. The house is now emptier, and I and the males in our house can fart freely without retribution. It is blissful, even though you didn’t mean it. You didn’t mean anything except “bye”.

Then you stole my father’s money. Twenty five thousand dollars. Then you spent it all on you. No college fund, no decent computer, nothing. But you’ve allowed me to make my own decisions, my own choices. Advice? Not really. But freedom is greatly welcomed. Except when you’re not there, except when I’m lost, confused.

In short, I love you because I have to, but I don’t hate you for what you’ve done.