A Letter to My Future Daughter’s Best Friend, by Dan Fitzpatrick
Or Madison, or Avery, or Harper. I can never remember. Anyway, the bond between a father and daughter is a special one, which I will treasure for all my days. There will be jokes laughed at, heartbreaks comforted, and secrets shared. Unfortunately, you will be there too.
I haven’t met you yet, but deep in my heart I already know how much you annoy me. One thing I want you to understand is that nobody is perfect, and our flaws are often what make us special. My pride-and-joy needs to embrace her weaknesses and her fears, and accept herself for who she is. You, on the other hand, just seem downright unpleasant. Lazy, smelly, selfish—I mean, the list just goes on and on! When you and my daughter play Spice Girls together, you insist that she be Baby Spice, even though with her go-getter personality, she’s much better suited as Sporty Spice.
Why am I assuming that my daughter’s generation will be interested in a 1990s pop group? Maybe because the future is really hard to predict, and I’m doing my best with what I have to work with. Christ, would it kill you just to lay off the questions once in a while?
Still, I have to recognize that you will be a vital presence in my daughter’s life, so here is my advice to you: Try eating your own food at your own goddamned house. You plow through our Fruit Gushers like it’s the end of the world, inevitably leaving just one packet left in the box. Guess which lucky bastard gets to settle that dispute between my little princess and her equally hypothetical younger brother? I didn’t pull a double shift at the plant so I can come home and play Sophie’s Choice with the kids’ snacks, thank you very much.
Of course, childhood is not forever. Years down the road, I will have to let my baby go, when she leaves to build a future with the love of her life. Tears will roll down my cheeks as I hand her off to another man, and my heart will glow with the knowledge that you’ll be out of my life for good. Although my house will be empty and my final years lonely, I can at least salvage some peace and quiet without you barging in and spilling Hawaiian Punch all over the carpet.
Also, put down that take-out box! The leftover cake is for the bride and groom, not your sorry ass!
Mr. Fitzpatrick (show some damn respect and stop calling me by my first name)
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