Five Lacuna Voices mark Father’s Day with a letter from the heart…

Exclusive | 4 min read

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads, pops, abayes, papas, babas, tads, vaders, otacs, tatays, abbas, apas, daidís, babbos, bapas, tas, tatas, pais, buwas, vatters, abbus, popa, tads and every other gramps out there! With big love, Lacuna Voices x

‘I’m grateful for every moment together‘

Ken Makin, 36, from South Carolina, writes to his father…

Dear Dad,

A few years ago, I entered a photography contest and made it to the panel of finalists. One of the features of the gallery was the chance to display and price your own photography. Modestly, I thought to price the piece at $100. ‘Price it at $1 million,’ you said. I laughed. You insisted. ‘One million dollars.’ I eventually settled on $7,500, an amount that was a combination of my self-esteem, your dreams, and my desire to please all parties involved.

You have never bound yourself with the expectations of other people. You never have and never will. That attitude is why you’re my hero and quite possibly, my best friend.

Next year, if the good Lord allows it, you will turn 70 years old. You’re as much of a jitterbug now as when I was a kid. You’re the primary caretaker for my grandmother — your mom. You’re a father of three, the grandfather of one and a role model for countless family members and friends.

You are a pretty remarkable person. What’s even more remarkable is that your father passed away when he was very young. When I look at my two-year-old son and think of the standard in which I desire to raise him, I look to your examples. Sure, there were fatherly influences in your life when you were young. Still, there’s a difference between someone playing the role of a father, versus having your biological father in your life.

I’ve been ‘spoiled’ in the sense that I’ve never had a day in my life where you weren’t around. The idea of you not being around, whether because of neglect or death, is foreign to me. I empathize with people who have lost or never known a parent, and I’m reminded of the special relationship that a famous basketball player had with his father.

‘My father,’ Michael Jordan once said, ‘he was there when I didn't understand, he was there when I was wrong, he was there when I cried, he was there when I lied. For some reason my dad was always there, when I needed him the most. His love was never ending. And now that he's gone there is an emptiness in my world, but not in my heart.’

When his father James Jordan was tragically murdered, Michael expressed that he was grateful for the time he’d had with his father.

I am lucky and grateful to be able to share that same sentiment with you while you are still here. I hope you read this letter and understand that I appreciate every conversation we have, whether it’s about family, fatherhood, politics - anything.

Dad, you’ve given me great pieces of advice over the years, but there’s one quote that sticks out: ‘You’re only as good as your word, son.’ That advice is a statement of truth - a standard to ensure that your word is your bond. I hope these words I’m sharing with you and the world, are good to you.

Love you, Dad.

Ken

‘Thank you for making our son possible’

Angela HaTem, 41, from Indianapolis, Indiana, writes to her anonymous sperm donor…

Dear Andrew,

We have never met but I am writing to thank you for our son, Wyatt.

I call you Andrew because your anonymous four-digit donor number seems so impersonal, plus your donor profile described your celebrity lookalike as Andrew Garfield.  

So Andrew, about our son and how he came to be. I always knew I wanted to be a mother, but didn’t know if marriage was the fit for me. I carried this wish and indecision with me through my 20s and into my mid 30s. By 38 I was still unsure about marriage, but very committed to motherhood. That’s when I decided to start a family with you.  

I scoured through profiles of anonymous donors, looking for someone whose medical history was a healthy one, someone with an affinity for education, and someone, who if I had met him on the street, I could have been friends with.

You weren’t maybe my first choice starting out, but you were the choice I kept coming back to. Your profile stuck out to me because of how highly you valued laughter and family. Much like mine, your family has a passion for music, most especially classic rock. We both enjoy reading and were Communication majors in college. We each have sisters who appear to be smarter than the two of us combined. As an added bonus that appeased my 95-year-old grandmother, you are also Catholic. Obviously not an inherited trait, but it definitely won the old gal over.

I reviewed a lot of profiles in my search. Some donors were very honest and shared that they were in it for the money, others creeped me out because of their desire to reproduce, you said you just wanted to help.  

After choosing you, I struggled for two years to conceive as a single mother by choice. There were setbacks and heartbreak along the route, but in the end, there came a beautiful 9lb, 13oz baby boy.  

Wyatt is 14 months old now and I see so much of my family in him. He’s the spitting image of my grandfather. He has grandpa’s eyes and grandpa’s crying face. He has my smile and my feisty personality. He also has your ears. The first time I noticed it, it knocked the air out of me. It’s a silly thing to notice, but they don’t belong to my family. Those ears must belong to you.  

I look at those ears with the little spike at the ridge, and I think about you and your family. I think of how grateful I am to you. How your desire to help a stranger changed the trajectory of my life in the most beautiful way. I think about your parents, of how much they would surely love Wyatt if they knew him. I mourn for the crater in their lives that they don’t even know exists.  

I still feel choosing you, an anonymous donor was the right decision for my family, but when I am looking at my small blonde boy with your ears it’s hard to just think of you as a nameless, faceless, earless being. I can’t fill that hole or the unknown void in your lives, but I can make promises to you and your parents that I will love Wyatt for each of you.  

I am Wyatt’s mother, father, playmate, chef, chauffeur, maid, teacher, counsellor, nurse, and security guard. I am going to be everything I can be to him, but I can’t be the man that helped give him life. That was all you. We will talk about you early and often in Wyatt’s life. I will tell him about the special guy from NY who gave Mama the best present she ever received, and asked for nothing in return. I will raise him to care about things we both value: family, laughter, books, sports, and AC/DC.  

I plan to celebrate myself on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. I will buy myself a steak. But when I raise my glass of wine this Sunday and on the many Father’s Days that follow, it will always be raised in your honor.  

I am proud to say that I can do a lot on my own, but I couldn’t have done this without you.

Happy Father’s Day, Andrew.  

Angela

‘The letter I wish Dad could read’

Marc Shoffman writes to his dad, Elan, who passed away in October 2019… 

Dear Dad,

Today should have been so different. My siblings and I should have been arguing about who picks you up and where we are going to mark Father’s Day.  

In recent years, the three of us probably spent more time planning the logistics for spending the day with you rather than spending actual time together. It felt easy to not worry about marking the occasion. You were well looked after in a care home whilst the Parkinson’s drained on your energy and attention span. 

It didn’t seem worth the effort if you were just going to fall asleep, head down in a plate of eggs Benedict as we tried to entertain you at brunch. I had my own children who I could stay awake with.

But I would give anything to lift your head off that plate now. To adjust your weakened face muscles so you could smile at me and your grandchildren.

It makes me sad that my daughters never had a traditional grandparent relationship with you. They may only remember you as their Papa who struggled to talk, but I try to tell them of the time before your illness took over.

To my daughters you were just a dribbling man, but to me you were a real life Action Man. An Israeli naval hero who once strapped terrorists to a ship that had been following yours to test their claims that there were no bombs on it. A warrior with arms and abs of steel, who could hold himself horizontally against a lamppost.

I‘ll never forget the morning you travelled on the train with me to school and confronted a gang who had been bullying me. I was 15 years old and it felt like being in a film where the bad guys finally get their comeuppance as they flee in fear. They never picked on me again.

We reckoned you knew everything, too, so we used to leave toys on the side for you to fix. I can’t remember if you ever actually repaired anything, but I have now in many ways absorbed that perceived superpower - my daughters think I can fix anything. I often can’t, as much as I try. They will always jump on my back the way I would cling to yours as a boy, too.

Dad, I’m so sorry that we couldn’t fix you.

You loved to laugh, and always did your best to raise a smile, especially chuckling along to The Laughing Policeman or belting out We Are Sailing during karaoke. A cheesy song always got you smiling even in your final years, but while you can get playlists on Spotify now for cooking, exercise or meditation, there is nothing to help with mourning.

There is no perfect grief song, but I found mine during an Arsenal away game against Vitoria SC in Portugal last year. The team’s anthem is We Are Sailing and I sat with tears in my eyes, that fans around me would have mistaken for the emotion of the occasion, as it rung out across the stadium. It wasn’t until I got home and requested the song on Alexa that I properly wailed as it played.

Rod Stewart’s lyrics are apt though: I am sailing. Stormy waters. To be near you. To be free.

I hope you feel free, Dad, wherever you are.

I promise I’ll pick you up, no arguments, if we meet again.

Happy Father’s Day.

Lots of love,

Marc

‘I feel so proud to call you my dad’

Isabella Lock, 19, from London, writes to her dad, Dave, 59…

To Dad,

Happy Father’s Day, not just today, but every day. You’ve taught me so much in life and have made me the woman I am - a person I am proud to be. For that, and many other things, I want to thank you.

Thank you for always supporting my ambitions and dreams, even the craziest ones. I have never doubted my ability to achieve anything and have always aimed high - I owe that self-belief to you.

Growing up as a person of colour in the predominantly white town of Plymouth, life was sometimes harder than it should have been for you. But you worked incredibly hard to build a wonderful life for your family through sheer determination.

Thank you for teaching me the importance of kindness. Your dedication in running marathons for charities like the Samaritans symbolises the type of selflessness we need more of in the world. Whenever I’ve watched you run the London Marathon as ‘Dave the running telephone’ I’ve felt so proud to call you my father. Even during lockdown, you ran those 26 miles as a ‘patiothon’ in our back garden, raising more than £1,000 for the Samaritans.

Your giving nature rubbed off on me, it seems. At 11, I organised a charity walk for my year group at school. At 17, I wrote for a newspaper about my experience with anorexia. Now, at 19, I use my blog to reduce the stigma around eating disorders and encourage others to share their experiences of the illness. None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for you. You’ve inspired me to make a difference in this world.

Thank you for teaching me to be curious and telling me over and over: ‘There is nothing greater than the power of knowledge.’ As a child, you took me to museums, art galleries and we travelled across the world together, founding a love of culture and language.

Thank you for listening, always respecting my beliefs and trying to understand them from my perspective. With that, you’ve ensured I’ve grown up confident in both myself and my values. I truly would not be the Isabella I am today if it were not for you.

Thank you for being my best friend and companion.

Thank you above all for being my father.

Lots of love,

Isabella

‘Fathers at the same time - and I’ve loved every second’ 

Dan Hughes, 34, from Stoke-on-Trent, writes to his father, Nigel, 61...

Hello Dad,

As I sit writing this at the desk in my spare room, I squint at the abandoned building site in front of me and think about you. Right now, I imagine you’re up a ladder, cutting a piece of material into an intricate shape or troubleshooting a complex structural issue.

One of the first things that struck me about you - and stuck - was your unwavering work ethic. You would, as you say, ‘knock your pipe out’ for hours on end, even on weekends. Yet when you’d pick me up from Mum’s on a Saturday evening, you still mustered the energy to crack jokes and take me on an impromptu adventure.

Sometimes you’d pick me up in the Transit, sometimes on your bike or sometimes on the Vespa. Whatever the vessel, I knew that we were in for a weekend of laughs and an off-the-bat excursion, whether it was a trip into Central London, a bit of tree-climbing in the Beeches or on a really rainy day, trying on silly clobber in the Debenhams on Slough High Street.

As you know, I have friends and loved ones who never knew their dads. Some passed away, but in most cases, those men abandoned their paternal duties, fading into dust. Given the circumstances, perhaps, you could have too. But you didn’t.

You didn’t just stick around and pay your share either. You invested something much more vital: time in me. You opened my eyes to the wider world and taught me the value of adventure. You helped me to understand that time is finite and we must use it well.

Dad, you are a larger than life character, to say the least. People always use the platitude ‘unique’ to differentiate one person the next, but there really is no one like you on the planet. Not even close. And, for the record, that’s a good thing, mate. A great thing, even.

I never thought that we’d both become fathers at the same time. But my son Sidney and your son Arlo (my little brother) were born exactly six months apart - a fact that dazzles and amuses us two more than anyone else - and it’s a real buzz. It’s by watching these two brilliant lads grow together while sharing the highs and lows of our joint parental experience that I understand the weight of responsibility fatherhood brings.

Suddenly, that sense of adventure that you instilled into me is being utilised, not only for my own gain, but to enrich Sidney’s life. And, all the while, I get to stand toe to toe with you, father to father and father to son.

We don’t get to see each other as much as we’d both like, and I miss you, Dad. When we’re together, pandemic permitting, we’ll be going on a big walk or talking codswallop in a beer garden with a cold pint in hand.  

For now, I’ll settle for a jar over video-chat to reminisce about our escapades.

Thank you for everything. 

Your son,

Dan

• Happy Father’s Day to all the pops out there, with love, Lacuna Voices x

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