A white sheet of lined paper lies in front of me, completely at my mercy, on my mahogany desk. I slam my pencil down. I pick it back up. I flop onto my bed. I run back to my desk. Brushing a few stray blond pieces of hair behind my ear, I start,

Dear Dad,
You'll be shocked after you find out I'm gone. That's why I wrote this. You can look for me if you'd like, but it won't do any good.

"What is this, a movie?" I mumble to myself as I crumple the letter and chuck it across my bedroom. It lands on my elephant pillow. Fetching a new piece of clean paper, I stare at it for a moment. Do I really want to do this? The question that's been on my mind for about a month now. Yes, I do.
  I attempt a second time.

Dear Dad,
You don't care about me anymore, which is why I'm running away. You're always too busy for your only daughter. I feel like we don't know each other anymore. I'll be fine on my own so don't worry- not like you ever did, especially on my birthday.

My birthday. It's been a sensitive subject ever since May, my last birthday. Leaning back onto my plush office chair, I close my eyes.
It was May 5th, 7:40 in the morning. My twelfth birthday. Elated, I ran downstairs to a birthday cupcake that wasn't there. At first, I was puzzled. Then, I was enraged. Dad forgot my birthday. And not just any birthday- my first teenage birthday. When I confronted him at breakfast, all he did was say, "Oh. I'm sorry Jasmin", shrug, and sip his coffee. At school that day, no one could figure out why I was so miserable.
I touch my cheek- it's cold.. and wet. One, then another follows the first. I dry my salty tears with my pajama sleeve and skim the letter again. I watch the crushed paper ball fly over the worn tiles and dive into the trashcan.
Another fresh sheet.

Dear Dad,
I'm leaving home for a while. Ever since Mom left, you've changed. It's better for the both of us if I go. I might come back someday-

Would I come back? Maybe. But would I want to come back to a house brimming with rough memories? Again, maybe.
Everyday during those rare moments when Dad is home, the topic of Mom hovers in the air. Yes, it's been a year but neither of us has yet acknowledged that she's not coming back. Some people would claim it's my mom's fault for leaving the family a wreck, but Dad was the one who always started the noisy, lasting fights. Even the last one.
Dad had started it, complaining that we had no more peanut butter. Peanut butter had turned into "why can't you go to the grocery store? I'm the one who does all the work!" and before I could go to the shower and turn the water to full power to block out the screams, Dad yelled, "This family would be better without you!”  Things happened quickly after that sentence. Mom grabbed her keys, her purse, kissed me on my cheek and slammed the front door for the last time. All because of peanut butter.
Mom had been a successful lawyer and was the only parent earning money. After her move-out, Dad got a job at Taco Bell to support us. We barely get by now.
Sometimes, I regretted not jumping up and saying, "I'll go get the peanut butter!" but I knew inside that it wouldn't have done anything. Mom and Dad were meant to be apart.
I swivel the chair and gaze at the framed photo on my bedside table. Three people are captured, hysterically laughing. I remember that day. Before their fights, we had visited Barry's Swamp Park. We were laughing at an alligator disguise floating in the pond. What a happy family we were. A family that is no longer complete.

Dear Dad,
Ever since Mom left and you started ignoring me, life changed. School is horrible and home is even worse for me. I have nothing to be happy about anymore. When I leave, maybe it’ll be better

Before Mom left, school meant friends, memories, and laughs. After school, I would be bombarded with shouts of "Hey Jasmin, you free today?" and "Be at my house next Friday! The party's going to be big!"  I talked to everyone, I befriended everyone- life was a gift I unwrapped every day. And then, right when the rickety porch stopped shaking with Mom's stomps, there were no more gifts to unwrap. Our neighbors, the Petersons eavesdropped on the whole fight, and, being the most sociable family in Fallsbrook, had informed the whole town. All my friends had pitied me and given me sympathizing looks. For a month, I was too gloomy to party or hang out. Meanwhile, everyone else got closer while I drifted away from my friends. The fact that I didn't have the money to go shopping for clothes every week didn't help at all. Jasmin, the fashionista at school soon became one of the sweatpants-sweatshirts girls. I still had a handful of friends, but it didn't compare to the paradise I had lived in before.
Yawn. My eyes follow the Mickey Mouse hands on my clock. 2:57 AM, it reads. I aim my 4th ball of paper at Mickey Mouse. Bulls-eye. Distracted, I fall into a trance for a few minutes. I snap out of it. I only had a few hours until Dad woke up and so far, I wasn't making any progress. I head to the bathroom and raise the handle an inch up- just enough for a trickle of water. I cup my hands together and splash my face. My reflection looks skinny. It must be because Dad isn't giving me money to buy junk food with my friends anymore. He doesn't want me eating unhealthy food. Or maybe he wants me to starve. The hardwood floors sound as lone and abandoned as I am when I glide back to my room.

Dear Dad,
I know you don't love me like you used to. We need a break from each other so please don't call the police, don't look for me, just let me try to start a new life.

Sometimes, I think my dad mastered pseudology, the art of lying. I can see right through his acts. "Jasmin, I'm really tired. Would you mind making breakfast today?" means "You're lucky I'm giving you a place to stay. The least you can do is make breakfast for once!" When he forgets to do my laundry too, it's obvious that he thinks I should do it myself. Not buying the groceries translates that he doesn't want to feed me! Everything he does is a little more proof that he wants me gone.
Spinning in the wheeled chair, I catch a blurry glimpse of my mini china cat on top of the bedside table. Mom gave me the cat when I was 7. She had a thing for cats- she was definitely a cat lady.
I doze off for a minute. I've never been up this late, but I need to get these letters finished by 4:00 so I have enough time to leave before Dad wakes up. My eyes drooping, I feel immensely exhausted.

Thump. My eyes fly open as I jolt awake. It's Dad, probably heading towards the bathroom. I twist my lamp off and tiptoe-sprint to my bed. Burying myself under the covers, I hold my breath and pretend I'm asleep just in case he looks into my room. A whispered curse echoes when Dad trips over a loose floorboard. I hear spaced footsteps, the bathroom door creaking, then a few moments later, a whirling flush of the toilet.
Oh no. What if Dad comes in and reads one of my letters!? Too late now. His footsteps aren't as long as they were before. A musty odor hits my nose as I sink my head into the puffed pillow. I see pitch-black through my clamped eyes. Dad opens the wooden door and makes his way to the left side of my bed. My heart is pounding, like I just ran a mile. I feel Dad's gaze on me. His hands stroke my scraggly hair and gently pull my blanket up to my chin. What is he doing? Suddenly, there's a warm breath on my forehead. Then... he pecks me on my head. 
After he leaves, I stay still for a good five minutes. I put my sweaty hand on my heart. It’s still thumping hard from anxiety. He's been tucking me in everyday. The thought lingers in my mind as I sit up in my tiny bed. My eyes sweep through my room. Crumpled papers are everywhere. Each one is a mass of guilt. He loves me, he really does. He wasn't pretending. I was just too stubborn and heartbroken to put the pieces together.
Images play in my mind. I see him coming home from Taco Bell at midnight, closing the door carefully as to not wake me, the dark bags under his eyes, him reassuring me that everything was going to be okay, sitting at the table with a pile of envelopes from the bank with his head in his hands.

Thud. I wake up hitting the cold, hardwood floor in a messy tangle of blankets and sheets. Getting up, I dust myself off and shove the sheets back onto my bed. I’m halfway out of the room when I halt. The letters are still in their place, untouched, each one the only physical reminders of my last night. Circling the room, I gather the paper balls and hurl them into the garbage can. I feel lighter, relieving the weight off my shoulders. Taking a deep breath, I stomp down the creaky stairs, skipping the 7th stair. Same as any other day, Dad's in the kitchen, by our mini table that used to accommodate three. Before today, I hated coming down to an awkward breakfast. But I’ll make today different. He's holding his coffee mug, filled with his usual- decaf, no sugar, and no cream. "Good morning Jasmin." he calls out.

"Hey Dad- you want some sugar?"