A Letter from a Little Girl to Her Dad in Heaven

Dear Papi,

I’ve spent a lot of time working with Mami on the other side, healing old wounds and speaking the unspoken. Now it’s time to reconnect with you.

Things were quiet between us for a while, save for the subtle signs—seeing your birthday appear in something I was reading or your date of passing show up on a clock. I knew you were giving me space so I could work on things with Mom.

A few years ago, you came to me in a dream. I was crying, thinking about all the pain you had suffered. First, your best friend, Tomasito, died. Two years later, Mom—the love of your life since you were 12—died of colon cancer. Then, you started dating Nenita, who had a crush on you back in Cuba, and she died of colon cancer, too.

You used to tell me, “I don’t get it. She calls me all the time. I mean, I know I was hot in Cuba in my short basketball shorts, but now?”

I’d laugh and wonder, Is this my dad or a frustrated teenager?

I still remember the day you told me you had cancer. I tried to bite my tongue and not point an accusatory finger when you said, “But it’s not the type of cancer you get from smoking.”

I tried everything in my power to get you to quit. I even threw out your cigarettes one day. You were so pissed! At some point, I thought you had stopped, but then I spotted you as I was driving to high school. You were standing outside of a 7-Eleven… smoking!

You stopped again, but years later, I found cigarettes under your car seat while Mom was sick. I guess you never truly quit. Either you became really good at covering up the smell with your cologne, or I became oblivious on purpose.

I could never save you, and that broke my heart. I hoped that meeting your grandchildren would give you the will to live after Mom died, and it did—until Nenita died. Your heart just couldn’t take any more loss.

You were right: the lung cancer wasn’t from smoking. It was from sadness—so much sadness, more than I will ever know.

You had a son before Frank and me. His name was Jesus. I don’t even know if he was stillborn or if he lived for a few hours. You only mentioned him a couple of times; that was all you could handle. Losing him left a mark—one that perhaps disconnected us when I was little. Connection meant love, but it also meant pain. Emotional distance was your protection.

We grew closer as I got older, especially in Mom’s absence. Your heart, although fragile, found a way to let me in. We talked about life, my marriage, and your true feelings. You were always so good at feeling things in silence, though I did see you cry once when we watched The Champ together. I remember laughing and calling you silly. As I write this letter now, I realize that the movie came out the same year Abuelo died.

I still feel your pain, Papi, and I love you with all my heart, but I am finally ready to let it go. The little girl who threw away your cigarettes couldn’t save you, nor was it ever her place. You told me in that dream that you had to go through all of that pain. It was never my responsibility to carry it. It was your journey, and I must honor that.

In releasing this, I can see you crying tears of joy, knowing that watching me carry your pain only kept you anchored in yours.

Go live your life, you say. 

I’m so proud of you. 

It took a lot of courage to do this.

You have loved me with all your heart, and I will always love you with mine.

Be free, mi niña.

Be free.

TAKE ACTION: Loving our parents doesn’t mean carrying their pain. Through Family Constellations, Aileen learned to honor her parents’ experiences while releasing grief that was not hers to hold. If you’re ready to explore what you may be carrying from your family’s past, book a complimentary discovery call at TappingIntoYourGifts.com or connect with Aileen on Instagram.