Dear Dad: A Son’s Letter to His Father After His Suicide

Submitted Anonymously

“Five more minutes!” you would tell me as I swung on the monkey bars at the playground after a harrowing day of second grade.

“Five more minutes!” you’d holler down to my playroom to prepare me for the daunting task of brushing my teeth and going to bed.

“Five more minutes till the train leaves for school, Bubs.” That was the fourth to last sentence you said to me that day. “I love you so much” was the last.

It was always five more minutes. Is that what Grandpa taught you to do to set your expectations of me?

I remember getting done with school and Aunt Katie was there to pick me up. She did that sometimes, but her face looked weird that day. I didn’t think to ask why. I was seven years old.

We went to grab some ice cream. She was quiet the whole time but I didn’t think to ask about that either. I always picked chocolate chip cookie dough. That was my favorite because it was your favorite. We’d always save all the cookie dough bites for the end of the bowl. You taught me to save the best for last.

That was the last time I ever had ice cream.

When Aunt Katie finally got me home, cops drove away from our house. They never came there. I wondered why they were there. Grandma was on the porch swing that you built. She summoned me over and started whimpering as she gave me a hug. Aunt Katie started crying too.

Then Mom and Grandpa came out of our garage, Mom was puffy-faced with red eyes and hugged me so hard I could barely breathe. That was the last hug where I really ever felt safe.

…. frankly, it’s the last hug that I ever really felt.

When they told me that you died and went to heaven, I didn’t understand that I’d never see you again at that moment. I would never hear you say, “five more minutes, Bubs.” I would never see your face light up when I finally read a full page in Captain Underpants without your help. I would never race you to my classroom. I would never sit in your lap and help you drive. I would never hear “I love you” from your own lips again.

I’m forever stuck at 7 years old wondering if you’d be proud of me now.

We had to move from the house because mom started having these panic episodes every time she looked at your shop in the backyard.

That’s where you did it.

I always wonder what would have happened if you waited five more minutes. Would you have done it still? Did you even think about me? I always felt that I did something wrong that morning. What if I didn’t make you wait for five more minutes?

I didn’t have you at my football games.

You didn’t have my back when I got in my first bloody fight with the school bully.

You didn’t punish me for getting a D in algebra in 8th grade.

It wasn’t until high school that I realized I was more of a man than the rest of my peers.

Your suicide made me grow up quickly.

You weren’t there to teach me how to drive on the highway.

You weren’t there when I barely graduated college.

You weren’t there when my first girlfriend broke up with me. 

You didn’t teach me how to take care of your car.

You didn’t teach me how to deal with days that really sucked. There are so many days that suck. Mom calls it chronic depression.

Thank you for that.

You weren’t there for a beer when I turned 21. Nor were you there for a celebratory drink when I got my first promotion at my first “big-boy” job.

You haven’t been there every single time someone asks in small talk, “so, what does your dad do?” Or ” is your dad coming?” And you definitely don’t see the empty pity that crosses their face when I say that my dad died when I was a kid.

“Oh! I’m so sorry for your loss!” They say. I loathe the pity. Imagine if they knew how it happened.

Did you know you increased my own chance of death by suicide ten-fold too? That’s statistically proven, Dad.

“I’m sorry… I’m angry. I love you.”

That was the note that you scribbled as if you were in a hurry. Why couldn’t you have waited five more minutes and wondered what MY life would be without you? Five minutes, Dad.

Maybe you would still be here so I could tell you that you have a granddaughter on the way.

Because of you, I have no idea how to be her father. All I know is I won’t leave her as you left me. 

Every time a big momentous event comes up in my life, you come back to my mind. I’m tired, Dad.

Twenty-eight years later and I still wish 7-year-old me had spent those last measly five minutes with you.

I needed you then. I need you still.

Why did you do this to us? 

I miss you. 

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If you’re having suicidal thoughts, a substance use crisis, or any other kind of emotional distress, dial or text 988 to talk to mental health counselors with the existing National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. You can also dial 1-800-273-8255.

If you are a Veteran or an active duty servicemember needing training on coming home from war and need resources to heal yourself and/or your family, please contact All Secure Foundation.

If you are interested in an in-patient program to help cut the chains of your addiction, please contact Warrior’s Heart.