The teacher told her, “Your dad must regret having you!” I was furious.

I went to confront this woman.

She looked at me calmly and asked, “Have you even checked your daughter’s bag?”

I froze when she showed me a crumpled note.

It was written in my handwriting. Sloppy, rushed. But no doubt it was mine.

“Some days I wish I never had her. I can’t do this anymore.”

I felt like the air had been punched out of me.

The teacher didn’t yell. She didn’t judge. She just said, “I thought you should know this was in her lunchbox today. She read it to the class.”

I couldn’t speak. My mouth went dry. I had no memory of writing it—but as I stood there, a dull throb started in my chest, like guilt rising up from somewhere I’d pushed it deep down.

The teacher’s voice softened. “Kids pick up more than we think.”

The note… I had written that weeks ago during a breakdown. After working double shifts, trying to juggle bills,

my car breaking down, and hearing that my ex-wife might be moving states with her new boyfriend. I had been exhausted, angry, and alone.

I scribbled that on the back of an envelope one night after putting Maren—my daughter—to bed. I never meant for anyone to read it. Especially not her.