This post is for my children: Charlie Wright, Alfie Wright, and Gracie Wright with love Dad
Christmas and New Year came and went, and I spent that time with my children, grateful for the moments we shared. But alongside that gratitude sat something heavy and constant — missing you. Missing you so deeply it felt physical. There wasn’t a single day over the holidays where you weren’t in my thoughts.
This time of year makes absence louder. It reminds you of what once was, and what could have been. I enjoyed the warmth, the laughter, the normal moments — and at the same time I felt an ache that never left, because you weren’t there. You should have been part of it. All of you.
I haven’t seen you in thirteen years. Writing that still doesn’t feel real. Thirteen years is a lifetime of birthdays, Christmas mornings, ordinary days that mattered more than I understood at the time. That loss sits with me every day, but it feels sharper during the holidays.
I thought about sending you things for Christmas. I really did. Not out of obligation, but out of love. In the end, I chose not to, because I never want to add pressure or discomfort to your lives. I want you to feel safe, free, and in control of your own boundaries. Until the day — if that day ever comes — that you feel comfortable reaching out, I will respect that.
Still, I want you to know this: I am here. I always have been. Even if you never speak to me, I would love to send you gifts one day, simply as a reminder that you are loved, thought of, and cherished — with no expectations attached.
I carry a lot of regret. I am deeply sorry for the pain I caused and for what we all lost because of it. My mental health played a role, but the ownership is mine alone. I take responsibility for that fully. There are no excuses here — just accountability and sorrow for the consequences that followed.
Please know this above all else: my love for you has never faded. Not once. You are, and always will be, my everything. I want nothing more than for you to be happy, safe, and fulfilled in your lives. If your happiness means that I can’t be part of it, then I accept that — even though it hurts — because your wellbeing matters more than my wants.
Life continues to move forward in unexpected ways. We are ten weeks into a pregnancy now, and there may be a new brother or sister joining the world. We will also be getting married this year. These are changes, but they don’t replace anything. They don’t erase the past, and they don’t diminish my love for you.
I dream of a future where this time of year could include all of you — even in the smallest way. Until then, I hold space for you quietly, with love, patience, and respect.
I love you with all my heart. That will never change.
Always.
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