Hi. Remember me? I'm your daughter. The one you left behind. I may as well bring you up to speed. I've grown up. I'm not the outgoing seven year old you left. I've the shy, overly-sensitive seventeen year old that remains.

I've grown up. I've had my first boyfriend. I've had my first day of high school. My award presentations. I've fallen in love. I've had my heart broken. I share an interest with you in computers, cars and music. Or so I've been told. And you've missed it all.

And why? Because you were guilty. An affair that broke my mother's heart. But how was I supposed to know that? I was seven, my little sister only five. Do you realise what you've done to us? Do you realise how many lives you shattered in the process of taking your own?

And what is left? A broken woman, who never found anybody after you, a shy, insecure and over-sensitive seventeen year old and a sixteen year old pathological liar with a tendency towards violence.

But do you know what hurts most? After all these years, the trauma of losing one's father hasn't affected me. Sure, it's toward telling people your father committed suicide, so I don't talk about it. I even enjoyed that attention that it brought me sometimes. I laughed at your funeral and then wondered why people looked at me, shocked.

What hurts most is that you didn't get to see me grow up, so that we could share our interests. So that you could yell at me when I came home past curfew. So that when Mum said no, you could say yes. And it hurts because I never got to say goodbye.

Goodbye, Dad. I love you.

Lizz.