My daughter, 7, came home crying.

The teacher told her, “Your dad must regret having you!” I was furious.

I went to confront this woman.

She looked at me calmly and asked, “Have you even checked your daughter’s bag?”

I froze when she showed me a crumpled note.

It was written in my handwriting. Sloppy, rushed. But no doubt it was mine.

“Some days I wish I never had her. I can’t do this anymore.”

I felt like the air had been punched out of me.

The teacher didn’t yell. She didn’t judge. She just said, “I thought you should know this was in her lunchbox today. She read it to the class.”

I couldn’t speak. My mouth went dry. I had no memory of writing it—but as I stood there, a dull throb started in my chest, like guilt rising up from somewhere I’d pushed it deep down.

The teacher’s voice softened. “Kids pick up more than we think.”

The note… I had written that weeks ago during a breakdown. After working double shifts, trying to juggle bills, my car breaking down, and hearing that my ex-wife might be moving states with her new boyfriend. I had been exhausted, angry, and alone.

I scribbled that on the back of an envelope one night after putting Maren—my daughter—to bed. I never meant for anyone to read it. Especially not her.

But I remembered now. That same envelope had been on the kitchen counter. She must’ve grabbed it by mistake while packing her lunch. Her little fingers always eager to help.

I went home that evening and watched her sleeping—arms thrown out like a starfish, her favorite stuffed rabbit curled under her chin.

“My dad makes mistakes. But he always tries again.”

Life isn’t perfect now.

Some days, we still run late. I burn dinner. The dog pees on the rug.

But I don’t feel broken anymore. I feel… human. And loved.

And if there’s one thing I’ve learned—it’s that our kids don’t need us to be flawless. They just need us to be honest, present, and willing to keep trying.

Even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy.

So if you’re a parent who’s overwhelmed… please hear this:

You’re not alone. And it’s okay to ask for help. Your child doesn’t need a perfect version of you—they need you, just trying your best.