I closed the door of my room, turned off the light, and switched on my flashlight because it made me feel focused and secretive.

I was on a mission.

I kicked off my shoes and sat on my bed, holding a piece of paper with an old sketch on the back. I wanted to write a rough draft first, because I was sure to mess up, and then copy the letter out on a clean piece of paper. It was easy enough to find scrap paper. I don’t know if I told you this, but my room is full of drawings. I don’t show them to anyone, but my mum has seen some obviously, because she comes into my room to clean and put my clothes away.

I draw all the time. It’s my favorite thing to do in the entire universe, but it’s kind of private. It’s my thing and I don’t feel comfortable showing it to anyone because that’s like an invitation for them to tell me what they think. And then they’d get all phony and say it was really good and pretend they were interested. I actually don’t really care what anyone thinks. Or maybe I do and that’s why I keep it a secret. But, whatever, the point is, there’s always paper I can recycle because drawing is my favorite thing ever.

To get in the right mood for writing this letter, I needed to think of my dad.

How else would I know what to write?

I tried to remember what he looked like, but my mind was blank. I got out the photo of him from under my drawer and stared at it. I thought it would trigger some memories but it didn’t help. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t really remember anything about him.

I remembered this kind of presence of him being around, but no specifics.

I couldn’t picture his face in my mind or remember the sound of his voice. I couldn’t remember him playing with me or dancing around the house to music. I couldn’t remember the shape of his hands or the feeling of being on his lap.

I couldn’t remember him much at all.

All I had left of him was a fading memory and a flat, silent photo on a shiny piece of paper.

Weirdly, that felt good. Like I had a little blast of revenge. All I had was a 2D photo to remember him by. And unless he came back, that was all I’d ever have.

I figured that wasn’t something any dad would be proud of.

So in a way, I was free. I could make him up exactly as I wanted.

I lay down because when I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling, I get all my best ideas. Like glow-in-the-dark pencil lead for artists who want to draw late at night, or a neon sign for your forehead that changes with your mood, so people don’t need to ask how you are all the time. I had the idea for my own style of drawing when I was staring at the ceiling: it involves layering drawings and cartoons and then painting and airbrushing on top. It’s a whole new form of art and it’ll make me world famous and blingingly rich. Artists everywhere will love me because my brilliant ideas will make their lives easier and my art will be worth zillions. Then I’ll have a glass ceiling so I can stare at the sky and the stars when I’m lying in bed. I’d have the best ideas then!

Anyway.

After a few tries I was happy with it, so I copied it onto a fresh piece of paper.

Dear Bella,

I can’t come to your party because I’m on a top-secret mission. I can’t tell you what it is because it would put you in danger, but it’s to save the country and all so it’s, like, way important. I can’t tell you where I am either but one day, a long time from now, when all my missions are over, I might be able to come back. I might not though, so don’t get all excited or anything.

I think about you both every day and if I could I would buy you both truckloads of presents and a cool phone for Amber and stuff.

Happy birthday!

Love, DAD

I thought it was good. Not too much, not leading her on or anything. Just a little touch of him to make her feel better without her getting her hopes up.

I folded it up, put it under my pillow and lay down, feeling insanely happy.

I was a genius.

I’d win some big peace prize or a hero’s medal or something.

I was a living legend.