A Letter to My Long-Lost Daughters

 by Sylvester Brown, Jr. / Feb. 5, 2025

People have described me as a bold, courageous writer. I graciously accept those descriptions. But, to be honest, what I’m writing here scares the heck out of me.

Let me explain; I have four kids from two marriages. I am in constant contact with the older two. The younger ones…not so much. In fact, we haven’t spoken in more than ten years, about four years after their mother and I broke up.  It started with them excluding me from school events and activities then that evolved into a total freeze out…denied visits, cut off from their phones and social media accounts and no response from the letters or emails sent via their mother.

So, why am I writing this? Maybe it’s desperation. After all,  I am a Black man in his upper 60s. I have some of the disproportionate health maladiess that come with being an older Black man. I dread the idea of leaving this planet without ever, ever talking with my girls again.

Maybe it’s long-held curiosity; I’m just not sure what I did to warrant this lifetime ban. The wounded part of me wants to blame their mother. Perhaps she told them something that they simply can’t forgive. But I could be in denial. I could be mistaken. I don’t think so, but maybe I’m an unknowing narcissist who avoids accountability.

But unless they tell me, how am I to know…how am I to atone?

In a letter I sent them (via their mother) year ago, I asked them to rely on their memories. What about those times when I woke them up with a song or made them laugh on the way to school or played with them in the park or made goofy characters with their dolls and toys…just to hear their delicious, uncontrolled laughter.

What did I do that was so horrible it erased all those memories…all those magic moments?

Let me be perfectly clear; I’ve done some asshole things in my marriages and as a father but the major recipients of most of that asshole-ness was my first wife and my older kids.  I Married at the age of 21 and had just been liberated from the strict religion of my childhood. Yes, I was wild adventurous and rebellious. But, by the time of my second marriage and 2^nd set of children I had matured and was running my own publication, Take Five Magazine.

At least, I thought I had mellowed.

My older kids-especially my first-born daughter-confronted me on my failures and shortcomings as a father. Yes, there was some pushback, some debate, some hurt feelings but we kept at it and found a path to reconciliation. Today I cherish our relationships, interactions and conversations.

Another reason I feel compelled to write this is because I want to know what’s happened or is happening in my younger girl’s lives. They were both naturally creative. The older one demonstrated a knack for writing and public speaking at an early age. I remember the joy I had helping her write short stories or listening to her address a crowd.  She also had a quiet wisdom that encouraged me to share things that I couldn’t with anyone else, including her mother.

The youngest one was creatively rebellious and-even though she frustrated the heck out of me-I admired her spirit. I imagined her utilizing her gifts in the arts, as an actress, painter, a spoken word artist, a rapper or something loud and bodacious.

I wonder how they turned out. Are they happy, content, fulfilled? What’s their politics? How are they navigating this convoluted world? Have they found true love? Do I have grandchildren I’ve never met?

Not knowing gnaws at my soul.

I’m a graduate of the “tough Black man school of life.” I feel vulnerable sharing my feelings and pain. I worry about putting actual written words to feelings I’ve kept bottled up for years. I dread they might make things worse...maybe forever cement this mysterious, seemingly impenetrable void in our lives.

What eases these fears somewhat is that maybe, just maybe, this might motivate a response from my daughters. Maybe, just maybe, someone who knows them well or knows their mother might intercede and urge them to, at the very least, contact their father.

Who knows; perhaps they’ve been convinced that I want no part in their lives. Since we haven’t spoken in all these years, maybe they don’t know that I truly miss them; that I only want to hear their voices and hear their words, their triumphs, their sadness and happiness.

Dear friends have told me: ‘They’ll come around when they’re older.’ Well, they’re in their mid-and-upper 20s now. They’re adults. I just think it’s time we talk before it’s too late.

Whenever I’ve faced difficulties or hardships, my mantra has always been: “write your way through it.”  So here I am, with fear and trepidation in my gut, writing my way through one of the most difficult challenges in my seasoned life. I just feel like I must take the risk, do something, say something, write something…and hope.

So, here’s hoping this “bold, courageous” but terrifying letter reconnects me with my long-lost daughters.