Hey Daddy,

Originally written on June 4, 2026

Some years it feels like yesterday.

Some years it feels like forever.

And some years are simply suffocating.

Usually, I write a carefully thought-out update about grief, legacy, a highlight reel on everyone, some comedy mixed in, and a nonchalant, "I'm still making it, still tough, still cowgirl don't cry, and I'll see you again one day."

This year, that would simply be disingenuous.

And a lie.

The truth is this year was awful.

I am more heartbroken than I have ever been, more betrayed, and more alone.

Whether by death, force, coercion, trying to do the right thing, or simply saying enough, I lost almost everything.

I am grieving the loss of a relationship I worked very hard to build on strong emotional ground with one of your grandsons.

"I'm not ready."

I found myself saying it over and over.

And instantly you flashed through my mind.

"I don't want to miss this."

I thought I had a few more years.

I lost meaningful connections.

I had to walk away from what I believed was my forever.

I had to accept that the girl who never liked being alone found herself in a standing-room-only situation with her ghosts.

Not old relationships.

Not old memories.

Herself.

The people pleaser.

The fixer.

The girl who believed if she loved hard enough, worked hard enough, communicated clearly enough, stayed loyal enough, people would eventually meet her where she stood.

They didn't.

So one by one, notebook in hand, I took a real inventory.

It was messy.

Chaotic.

Loud.

Deafening.

And everything in between.

But it was due time, don't you agree?

The truth is I didn't do everything right.

I allowed other people's opinions to cloud my judgment.

I allowed my hope to overshadow my logic.

I moved from survival.

I moved from fear.

Then from fear that I had moved from survival.

I moved from my moral compass.

The problem is eventually they all started pulling in different directions, and the path I knew I needed to walk was going to be a hard pill to swallow.

It started with calling Momma and saying,

"I'm coming home."

That inventory wasn't even close to nice.

But it was honest.

Because for the first time, maybe since you left, I stopped taking inventory of everyone else and started taking inventory of me.

Through the ghosts, I saw something in the back of the room.

You.

I could almost hear you say,

"It's okay, Peanut.

Come sit with Daddy awhile."

Patting your knee.

So I did.

I sat down with my grief.

My anger.

My heartbreak.

The people I lost.

The people I had to leave behind.

And the versions of myself I'd outgrown.

And suddenly I'm back in that '98 Z71.

Windows down.

The sun just starting to peek through the pines as we hit that last stretch of Dauphin Island Parkway before it opened up over the water.

"Look at that, Peanut. Like glass."

I was completely unimpressed.

Cold.

Half asleep.

Already asking for donuts and a Pepsi-Cola.

You scrunched your nose at my attitude.

95 KSJ playing in the background.

"It's gonna be a good one, folks. Wear your sunscreen and a life jacket..."

Then came My Maria.

You turned it up.

"Night owl like your momma, huh Peanut? But you're mine too, and we get up early. You can sleep on the boat."

You knew I was tired.

You knew I was grumpy.

You knew I wanted absolutely nothing to do with being awake at the actual ass crack of dawn.

But you took me anyway.

(Thank you for that, by the way.)

I nodded.

Half asleep.

Half annoyed.

You started singing.

"She is the sunlight when my skies are gray..."

Then you chuckled to yourself.

"How fitting."

And tossed me a wink.

And for just a second, all these years later, I wasn't grieving.

I was there.

Back in that truck.

Just a daddy and his Peanut chasing the sunrise.

Loving you as I do, as loyally as I do, as all-encompassing as I do was something you earned.

I was so young when we started the endurance test of a lifetime that I applied that lesson to all of my connections.

I was giving Freddie-level loyalty to people like it was a Freddie-palooza.

And honestly?

I don't regret it.

Maybe some of those people needed that kind of love once in their life.

The truth is we communicated.

If I didn't understand something, I asked.

If I was curious, I asked.

If I was hurt, I said so.

You always found a way to help me understand.

There were a few non-negotiables, sure.

I've got a few of those myself these days.

But mostly you taught me to think.

To question.

To learn.

To tell the truth.

I talked about my feelings out loud far more than necessary.

Always have.

Always will.

Unfortunately, people took those truths, turned them into gossip, rumors, entertainment, and sometimes weapons.

My kids saw that.

They watched people take some of our family's hardest moments and use them as material.

Not because I wasn't doing what I was taught.

Quite the opposite.

I was doing exactly what I was taught.

I communicated.

I told the truth.

I took accountability.

I tried to understand people.

And when I needed something, I asked for it.

A hard realization I came to was that most people only see the world from their driver's seat.

Most don't even see who they chose to ride shotgun.

Y'all raised me to think about the truck I was driving, the ones on both sides of me, the one in front of me and behind me, and when I could, even further than that.

This year, standing in a room with every version of myself that nobody ever came back to meet, I did what I teach my kids to do.

I turned around one last time and reached out my hand.

I grabbed a hand and started pulling them all toward me.

Because around here, when we go up a step or make it into a nicer room, we turn around, hold the door, and help the next one up.

I realized I had left a version of myself behind like a breadcrumb every time life asked me to move forward.

Not because I wanted to.

Because I didn't want to lose you.

I unknowingly must have thought that if I kept moving forward, healed too much, changed too much, grew too much, one day I'd turn around and realize I couldn't find you anymore.

That somehow the grief was the proof.

That if I stopped carrying it, I'd lose you too.

But if what I teach is true, then you're not behind me, are you old man?

You're not sitting back there waiting on me to come find you.

You're not trapped in a hospital room, a fishing trip, or a memory.

You're ahead of me, reaching back.

The one holding the door while pulling me up.

Keys in hand to a new truck to show me around the sky.

I can feel that you and Jennifer Lauren have already planned out a proper scare.

And you're already over there snickering about it.

Have you seen the new GMCs?

They finally got that crimson color you always wanted.

Lol.

I know I could never forget you.

But I needed to trust that the world wouldn't forget you too.

I suppose I should give you an update on your grandkids.

Zac is 6’3” now and has damn near perfect grades.

Between me and you, that one grade that’s still stellar anyway is only there because, just like you, the work is tedious and it bores him.

He decided he wanted to try living with his dad for a while.

And Daddy, he is hilarious.

A few weeks ago he was reeling in a drum and said, “You wanna dance? Let’s dance. I got all night.”

I laughed so hard because it sounded exactly like something you would’ve said.

I know he misses you.

Sometimes when he talks, it’s like listening to you.

I think on days like this he feels robbed too and I guess he finally found that humble bone because he would never show it.

Not of your accomplishments.

Not of your reputation.

But of your stories.

Your patience.

His momma’s peace.

I wasn’t ready to only see him part-time.

I damn sure wasn’t ready to only see him like I do.

I sure thought I had a few more years.

Truthfully, I never thought he’d be where he is now, so I suppose some gratitude is owed there.

I still remember the advice you gave me thirteen years ago.

"He’ll grow up, Peanut. I was thirty-five when we had you and it still took me a few years. Don’t you tell him, Peanut, but you wait and see. He’ll come around."

You told him you were always watching.

I sure hope that’s true, Daddy.

I really do.

In the meantime, Zac is adjusting well.

And goodness, doesn’t he remind me of you more every year?

Then there’s Lucas.

Covered in awards this year.

Curiosity.

Grades.

Improvement.

Integrity.

He lives up to his middle name more every day.

That little mind of his is fascinating.

Sometimes I wish I could ask if that’s you in him.

His mechanical mind.

His wit.

I know for a fact his empathy and heart are partially ours.

And from one grown-up Peanut to her daddy, I worry.

I worry about how cruel this world can be.

I worry about what he’ll unnecessarily have to carry.

I worry about what others will do to him.

Then I remember me and you.

And I remember that somehow we always found a way through.

Really, in some ways we still do, don’t we?

My one and only bonus baby girl is all grown up.

Talking about saving money.

Future land.

Future plans.

Building a life that already seems to carry more peace at eighteen than most people ever find.

And Daddy, I’m proud of her.

Fiercely proud.

I fought hard for that girl.

I went to war with things she’ll never have to carry.

And I remain steadfast next to her, armor in hand, for the wars she does.

Watching her build a life of her own reminds me that sometimes the fight is worth it.

I do wish it wasn’t so far away though.

You fought for me.

I fought for her.

That’s a legacy, isn’t it?

For what it’s worth, every road in this story seems to lead back to you.

Mom, Lanny, and I fought so hard for you.

Some people are worth the fight.

Now I understand why.

I was angry.

Angry that I was robbed of a daddy.

Angry that I was robbed of your stories.

Your guidance.

Your patience.

The stability that comes from knowing your dad is only a phone call away.

But the older I get, the more I realize you were robbed too.

You missed so much.

You missed watching Zac start to become a man.

You missed Lucas entirely.

You missed MJ.

You missed graduations, birthdays, first jobs, heartbreaks, victories, and all the ordinary Tuesdays in between.

I think that's the part that hurts the most now.

Not what I lost.

What you missed.

I hear your Freddieisms all the time.

Sometimes in the big things.

Most often in the little ones.

Show up. Look alert. Keep your mouth shut.

All you got is your word, Peanut. If you can't count on that, you got nothing.

Do the right thing even when it is not popular.

And every now and then, when life gets particularly ridiculous, I can still hear you laugh and remind me that some lessons just have to be learned the hard way.

As much as it hurts, I can finally see something I couldn't see when I was younger.

You were preparing me to live without you.

Not because you wanted to leave.

Not because you were giving up.

But because you knew better than most that none of us are promised tomorrow.

Neither of us could've imagined how soon that lesson would matter.

Sometimes I can still see you bartering your way back down here twenty-six years ago while a doctor was telling us,

"He's got one foot in the coffin and one is slipping on a banana peel."

I am so grateful you fought for thirteen years to make sure I knew that.

Maybe it's coincidence.

Maybe it's not.

Either way, every time I turn around, there it is again.

Thirteen.

This year, I'm determined to correct the record, receipts in hand, and turn all this grief into something worth leaving behind.

The legacy your name deserves.

The one all three of my parents fought for.

And the one I'm finally ready to let off the Front Porch.

May the wind carry it exactly where it needs to go, at exactly the right time.

I hope I'm somewhere on a beach with my grands, soaking up the sun, watching the legacy you built and I was finally brave enough to write continue to grow.

The kind that echoes through the silver hair of old oak trees for generations to come.

I'll save you a seat. 💙🌾🚛🌳🏖️

Love Always,

Peanut