Hank Moody to Becca

To my dear beautiful daughter, 

I’m writing you a letter. That’s right a good old fashioned letter. It’s a lost art, really? Like handjobs. Shit.

I have a confession to make, I didn’t like you very much at first. You were just this annoying little blob. You smelled nice, most of the time, but you didn’t seem to have very interest in me, which I of course found vaguely insulting. It was just you and oyur mom against the world. Funny how some things never change. So I cruised the long doing my thing, acting the fool, not really understanding how being a parent changes you. And I don’t remember the exact moment that everything changed. I just know that it did.

One minute I was impenetrable. Nothing could touch me. The next my heart was somehow beating outside my chest, exposed to the elements. Loving you has been the most profound, intense painful experience of my life. In fact it’s been almost too much to vow. As your father, I made a silent vote to protect you from the world. Never realizing that I was the one who end up hurting you the most.

When I flash forward my heart breaks, mostly because I can’t imagine you speaking of me with any sort of pride, how could you? Your father is a child in a man’s body, he cares for nothing and everything at the same time. Novel in thought, Weak in action. Something has to change, something has to give. It’s getting dark, too dark to see.