A Daughter’s Letter: Growing Up in My Father’s Shadow—An American Family’s Struggle With Alcoholism

“I HATE YOU!” My little brother Tyler’s voice cracked as he hurled the words at Dad, who was swaying in the kitchen doorway, a half-empty bottle in one hand, the other bracing himself against the frame. I pressed my back against my bedroom door, heart pounding. I could hear Mom’s tight, trembling voice trying to calm them both—she always tried, but her words barely reached past the storm. I closed my eyes and gripped my notebook, the one with the letter I’d written for English class, the one where I tried to explain what it’s like when the person you love most becomes a stranger.

My name is Emily Carter. I’m sixteen, a straight-A student, decent at volleyball, and, if you believe my teachers, mature for my age. But I don’t feel mature—just tired. Tired of whispering apologies to neighbors after another loud night, tired of making excuses for why my dad missed the parent-teacher conference, tired of the sick knot in my stomach every time I hear the sound of a bottle cap twisting off.

It wasn’t always like this. There are photos on the mantel—Dad holding me on his shoulders at Six Flags, grinning with sunscreen on his nose. That was before the layoffs at the factory, before the afternoons at O’Malley’s turned into nights passed out on the couch, before Tyler started hiding under his bed when Dad’s truck rumbled up the driveway.

Tonight, Tyler was standing his ground. “Why do you always do this? Why can’t you just STOP?” he yelled. Dad slammed the bottle on the counter so hard I thought it would shatter. “You think I want this?” he spat. “You think this is easy?”

Mom’s voice, desperate: “Let’s just all calm down—”

But Dad’s anger was a living thing. “Don’t tell me to calm down! None of you understand!”

I shoved my notebook under my pillow and crept down the hall. Tyler’s face was streaked with tears, his fists balled at his sides. Mom’s hands shook as she tried to pull him away. And Dad—my dad—looked lost, like a man drowning in his own house.

Later, after the shouting faded and the house settled into an uneasy silence, I tiptoed into the kitchen. Dad was slumped at the table, head in his hands. He didn’t look up when I grabbed a glass of water. I wanted to scream, to shake him and ask why he keeps choosing the bottle over us. But I just stood there, watching the man who taught me how to ride a bike fall apart piece by piece.

In English class, Mrs. Johnson had asked us to write a letter—”to anyone, about anything that matters to you.” I started writing to my future self, but the words turned into something else: a confession, a plea, maybe even a warning. I wrote about hiding in my closet with Tyler during the worst nights, about the time Dad promised he’d get better and lasted three whole weeks, about how hope feels like a betrayal when it keeps getting smashed.

I never showed Dad the letter. I never planned to. But Mrs. Johnson asked if she could share it anonymously to help other kids who might be struggling. That’s how it ended up on the school website, how people started looking at me with pity or curiosity or both. Some kids whispered behind my back—others left notes in my locker, telling me about their own broken homes. I learned that I wasn’t alone, but somehow, the weight of that didn’t make it easier.

One night, when the tension was too tight to breathe, I found Tyler in the backyard, kicking at the dirt. “Do you think he loves us?” he asked, not looking up. I wanted to say yes, to promise him that love was enough. But I remembered Dad’s shaking hands, the way he couldn’t meet my eyes after he sobered up, the way he apologized over pancakes and promised he’d try again.

“I think he wants to,” I said finally. “But sometimes… people get lost. And they don’t know how to come back.”

Mom tried everything—church groups, counseling, even begging Dad’s old Army buddy to talk some sense into him. But addiction isn’t something you can reason with. Some days, Dad was himself again—joking, fixing Tyler’s bike, making his famous chili. Those were the days I clung to, the ones that made me almost believe things would get better.

But the darkness always crept back in. Once, during a school play, I looked out and saw Mom and Tyler in the front row—and an empty chair between them. Afterward, I found Mom crying in the car. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this, Em,” she whispered. I didn’t know what to say, so I just held her hand and tried not to cry too.

On my seventeenth birthday, Dad showed up sober. He gave me a card—no money inside, just a note: “I’m sorry I keep letting you down. I love you, Em. I’m trying.” For the first time, I let myself believe him. Maybe, just maybe, we could be a family again.

But hope is dangerous. Three weeks later, he relapsed. This time, it was worse. The yelling turned into broken dishes, a hole punched in the wall. Mom packed a suitcase and took Tyler to Grandma’s. I stayed—I don’t know why. Maybe I thought if I could just say the right words, he’d come back to us.

That night, I sat across from Dad in the kitchen, both of us silent. Finally, I said, “I miss you.”

He started to cry, his shoulders shaking. “I miss me too,” he whispered.

I don’t have a happy ending, not yet. Dad finally agreed to rehab last month. Mom’s still wary, Tyler barely speaks to him. I see him on weekends, and sometimes we just sit, saying nothing, listening to the wind rattle the windows.

Sometimes, I wonder if love is enough to save someone—or if the best thing you can do is save yourself. How do you forgive someone who keeps breaking your heart? And what does it mean to love a person who isn’t always there? If you’ve ever loved someone lost to addiction, what did you do? Did you ever find your way back to them—or to yourself?