Dear last letter,

I am happy to finally reach an end to this charade. I am trying to walk on a ground that is too hot, and my feet are now burned to the extent that I can’t take one more step forward. I am finally going to fall, and this time when I fall, people won’t be able to catch me. Not that they ever did. But this time, before falling, I will reach my abode because this time, the universe will be catching me.

One request: just never reach my father. Because once you reach him, I will truly fail. Reach my mom or my sister if possible, and then you will know you are in safe hands. Ha! How contrary this letter is to my previous ones. In the previous ones, I went all out and wrote things to make my dad feel bad. To make my dad realize that I am not bad. I just wanted him to approve of me. Just once. I wanted him to tell me that I am a good daughter and that he loves me. Alas! I never heard any of these lines. Today, I give up my expectations of him. Today, I give up on being your daughter because I have tried as many times as I can, but I never seem to reach my destination. Whatever step I take, it always leads me somewhere where you don’t want to see me. And I have walked so far that I don’t know where I am.

I remember going to school. I remember being with my friends and sharing lunch. I remember bunking my classes and talking about boy drama. I remember being caught bunking, cheating, and bringing a phone. Though I was never caught for cigarettes or other such activities, I remember the first time I got validation for math. It was class 6. I scored 17 out of 20. The class clapped for me since I was third, and you slapped me for losing three marks. That day, I promised myself that I would work hard to be smart enough for you, my dear father. But promises made in sad moments are blooming emotions. The weather they bloom in changes when the situation emerges. By the time I reached 10th grade, my math was making my report card drown, but not the way science was. Though one subject always made me believe in myself, It not only always picked me up from dark waters when the time came, It also helped me rise a few ranks in the class. History became my pride. The burden of geography, ecology, and political science would disappear in front of history. History was the subject I would escape myself into, and I used to love escapism as much as you love fighting mom and sister. The more you fought with them, the more I attached myself to history. You know why? You hate history. In those moments, you would curse my mom and beat my sister. I saw you as a demon. A demon I hated more than I could ever love.

One evening, I was out with my sister on a walk. When we return, I find you sleeping with a pale face and pain so striking in your head that you start stuttering. Your stutter scared me. I remember it being 11 at night, and you were made to be admitted to the hospital. Sis and I were alone at home, scared. My mom, who knew nothing about hospitals or what to do, was running around just so that doctors could take care of you. so that your pain would end, so that the person who had been torturing her since the moment she married gets to live. Ironic, isn’t it? She stayed with you and lived in the hospital for a week. I won’t lie. My heart was kept on fire, and the pain I endured was searing. In that moment, even if you had gotten better and beaten any of us, I would have been happy. At least you would be alive. I always prayed for your happiness; you never did the same. In a week, you got better and came back home. You were in bed for six months. Our home—I mean, our house—had no income. That was the moment I realized, without money, you don’t belong on Earth.

You got better in a few more months, and things came back to normal again, except your anger levels increased. We were immune to your wordings, so eventually our lips, which were sealed, got sewn. You would dump your anger on anyone, and it would be fine.

While you were recovering from wounds that could never really heal, I was preparing myself for my first board. As the day passed by, I kept walking on and comprehending my life. That time, I knew I was in class 10. I need to give my boards good marks. I knew where I was. I had a vision and a mission. Ultimately, the day I wished never should have come, but it did. I scored 80 in math. When you heard it, you were happy that your daughter scored 80 in math. You bought me three chocolates to celebrate. The darkness ran as the daylight emerged. The next morning, I woke to your shouting. And guess what it was about? I scored only 80 in basic math. That moment, I knew I wasn’t enough. But in that moment, I also knew that if I take history and score 98%, you will accept me and start loving me.

In 11th grade, every teenager is made to choose. The choice is easy if parents don’t interfere. However, only if parents were not intervening in it. You told me to take PCB. A subject I would never fit into. You fought with me that night, saying I knew nothing. That you don’t want to spend money to make me illiterate. You thought history would make me an idiot. Though part of it was true. I really became an idiot who was in love with history. But for you, I was going to give up on it. Then a thought came. It was my life without history in it, and I saw myself descending the stairs of life and walking into emptiness. I was too scared, and I switched subjects before informing you so that all your rivalry would end in vain.

The next years of my life with the humanities were as if the god of ecstasy was blessing me. I was not flying in the sky; I was floating in the air. I was in the arms of history, and everything that was a thorn never reached me. I was in love with studying, and it was the first time I knew what true love meant. Because the feelings that I bore for history weren’t love then, I guess I don’t know what love is and never intend on loving someone. Though the days that are spent well are the days that pass quickly, My 12th board was here. I knew that this could be my last time studying these subjects, so I made sure I was doing my best. I was giving my best. The last exam was history. I was too tired to give my all but too determined to let the exam go badly. I studied hard. As hard as I could. Slowly, the night before the history exam came. I started crying. I was forgetting everything. I was too tired to read one more word. That was the first time I gave up on history. I set my mission to impress you aside and went to bed. The next day, I was nervous. I didn’t know if I would be able to write a single sentence. I prayed. The question paper was in my hand. I saw it, and you know, what I saw—history never gave up on me. Once my pen started running on pages, it never stopped until time stopped. The time did stop. I see myself there. Standing happy and satisfied to complete one phase of my life. But with that phase, I was also done. Life stomped on me, and I was made to choose a course that was not history. I took it because you said you wouldn’t let me study further.

My college entrance became a reality, and I finally faced my first college rejection. I was in tears, though I knew other colleges better than this one existed. I was sad because I didn’t get in. you asked. I told. A big mistake. You told me I was not good enough. You told me I couldn’t do it. You told me I was destined to fail in life. You told me I’d better die than embarrass you in society. I made up my mind and planned not to waste your money by going to college. My mother that day, just like usual, hugged me and said, “Work hard. It’s okay to fail. Work hard because if you don’t study and earn, how can I escape this hell”. A new goal was set: to study and start earning to provide a life for my mother.

My board results came in, and I scored 99 in history. The only word you uttered was ‘good’. No excitement, no happiness, just a blank good. It was an achievement I was too proud of, and you literally said to my mother, “It’s history; everyone can score that”. And that was that. I was hurt but didn’t have time to feel it because college started and a new life began.

I went to college, and my first year, I would say, was blasting. Friends, parties, drinks… I was enjoying it. I think the moment college started, I stopped comprehending my life because I didn’t understand what was happening around me. I didn’t understand what I was doing. I was lost in the streets, I was supposed to know how to walk in them. But I was able to drag myself, if not walk. I was able to walk through the first semester and secure a CGPA of 7. You asked. I told. No reply. Expected.

The second semester, I had this hole in my heart. I couldn’t continue. I was gasping for air, but there was none. In my first semester, I had world history as a subject. In the second semester, there was no history. I was so pissed at my life that I was being thrown out of classes because I was playing with my phone, and in those moments I planned to end this and leave the course. I talked to my mother, and she told me to study this for now, and once I start earning, I can study history. I was not very satisfied, but I went on. I gave my second semester exam. My CGPA was 7.8. I improved! I was happy because my exams didn’t go very well, and I was praying to pass. I scored more than I expected. I was happy. That night, you asked I told. A big mistake. You started shouting and telling me that all your money is going down the drain, that you don’t have money for yourself yet you are paying for my fees, and this is the result you are scoring. And again was the statement: You should kill yourself; you are a shame to me.

I was done. At that moment, I didn’t break. I didn’t cry. I knew what I needed to do. I walked straight up to the balcony. I breathed in the air. The moon advised me of the same thing I had in mind. I came back in and started writing this.

Dad, I will never be enough for you. It doesn’t matter how much I try; I am not able to do it. I can’t be the daughter you want me to be. Thank you, mom and sis, for being there for me and for standing by my side. All the best for all the torture you would have to endure without me. because I can’t. I am still standing there in the school. My history exam just got over, and I am all happy and satisfied. I am still at school. I needed help to comprehend my next phase of life, but I didn’t have it. I can’t finish this goal of waiting to complete the degree and then earning it. No matter my efforts, I always met taunts and disregard. So, here I am at the end of this letter. I wanted to just stop and smile. I was never able to do that. I wanted to be a researcher. I wanted to do research and find out about monuments and artifacts. I couldn’t do it. I was parted from my love, and now I can’t. I just can’t take it. I am sorry if I was supposed to be perfect academically. I am sorry if I am illiterate in the eyes of my dad. I am sorry if I am a shame to him, but now I wouldn’t exist. Maybe he will be happy if i die, since now no one will bring shame to him. Sorry for everything I was supposed to be but could never become. I loved you, dad, so much that today I really want to go back in time and make myself incline towards mom more. I think if I would have done that, I would have gotten my validation. But I can’t change, and here we are. Now, it’s time to give up.

Good bye world!

With love,

Prerna.