I asked my daughter the other day at what age she realized that life had the potential to really suck.

She thought about it for a minute.

“Probably around 11. When we moved and I had to switch schools. And when, well, you know…”

When her father called child services on me in a revenge soaked, epic dick-move. That’s when she decided to stop seeing or talking to him.

“I think mine was the day that grandpa died,” I shared with her. Almost the same age.

“We can both pinpoint the exact moment when we stopped being an innocent little kid,” she responded, then changed the topic because she’s good at doing that.

It’s nice to be able to have deep conversations with my daughter. I have never been one to blow sunshine up her ass. If anything, I have always tried to be honest with her about the kind of things that she’s likely to (continue) to come across in her life.

People are going to leave you and there will be nothing that you can do about it.

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And it’s going to hurt. A lot. You’ll cry and feel empty.

You’ll have to leave people sometimes for your own well-being.

And it’s going to hurt, fucking tremendously, maybe even feel like it’s too much for you to deal with.

Sadly, she knows these truths all too well already at such a young age.

Come to think about it, though, so did I at almost 20 years old.

What I didn’t know was that it never gets any easier.

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