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I have two little sisters, and we all have different fathers. 

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His name isn’t on my birth certificate. I don’t share his last name.

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I miss you Dad when you use to always know that I will find the love of my life. I miss you Dad when I know she’s here and you’re not.

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Each and every one of my achievements are all because of you, because you have made me such strong woman. You are responsible for part of the inner strength I have, the logic that saves me from any situation, and the relentless determination to finish everything I start.

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You make sure that someone is worth the trouble before allowing yourself to grow attached to them, because you realize most people would only be a waste of your time. 

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The title “Dad” is one that has to be earned.

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Motherhood automatically sharpens your sense of perspective.

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Throughout my pregnancy, whenever friends, family members, or strangers asked if I was going to breastfeed, I always chimed, “I’m going to try my best!” I prided myself on approaching the matter rationally, understanding that there was another person—my unborn daughter, whom I hadn’t even met yet—who factored into the equation.

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It no longer is the simple fact that he is gone, but rather it becomes just how much he has missed.

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There are hundreds of us, or maybe thousands. All have their fair share of pain. But we will always be here.