“To my son, the writer. Something I never said too much: I love you. My father never said it much, either. And I thought I’d be different, but I guess I’m not. I tried, but somewhere along the line, you slip back into what you know, and I’m sorry about that. And I’m sorry we haven’t talked in a while because I miss you. You’re a good kid and a funny kid. And you’re my only son.
I said I never read your books, but I lied. I read them all. I just didn’t know how to talk about them with you. I didn’t like the fathers in them. I know you writers take liberties, but I was afraid that maybe you didn’t take any at all. But the thing is boys become men, and men become husbands and fathers, and we do the best we can. You’re doing the best you can. You’ve done good. Your books will be in libraries long after we’re both gone, and this is important.
More important is how you treat your family. I wasn’t a perfect husband, but I loved your mother, and I’m glad we spent our lives together. And I’m here if you need me. That’s all I wanted to say.
Love, your old man.
P.S. I saw a preview of your movie the other night. It looks like a piece of shit, maybe you were right.”