Hey Babe,
Today I taught in Relief Society. The lesson was based on Dallin H. Oaks’ talk “Alive in Christ and the Resurrection.”
As I stood there teaching, I felt you with me. Not just a passing thought—but a real, quiet presence. It was emotional… in a way I didn’t expect.
I shared stories about my birth father, Colby—and about you.
I told them Colby was a good man. All I ever wanted was for him to be my dad. He was kind and gentle… but he carried demons he couldn’t overcome. The night he hit me in a drunken rage—that wasn’t who he truly was. Addiction changes people. It clouds memory, distorts truth. I don’t think we ever really knew what happened that night.
He said I was playing with the ironing board, that he asked me to stop and I didn’t. Then he struck me—his hand across the side of my three-year-old head.
I believe that moment haunted him for the rest of his life.
Mom divorced him, and over the years, we barely spoke. Maybe ten times, if that. But every time we did, he would say the same words: “I’m so sorry, honey.”
And every time, I would stop him and say, “I forgave you a long time ago.”
But now I see it differently.
When he sobered up, the weight of what he had done crushed him. And instead of healing, he ran back to the very thing that destroyed him. Over and over again.
Now, I find myself wishing I could say something different:
“I’m sorry too… for the anger I carried. I just wanted you to be my daddy. I wanted you to rescue me.”
I believe he’s in Heaven now. Whole. At peace. I wonder if you’ve seen him. I hope you have.
I look forward to the day I see you both again… along with your mom and dad.
The lesson also touched on something that stayed with me. As members of the Church, we sometimes feel misunderstood—but we’ve also had moments in our history where we didn’t fully accept others either. That has to change.
You and I never lived that way. We’ve loved people from all walks of life, all beliefs. And truthfully, many of them have been better at loving than I have.
That’s what I’m learning—really learning.
To love people where they are. Not where I wish they would be.
Because if we are judging, we are not loving. And if we are not loving, we are not living like Christ.
That’s the part I’m still working on every single day.
Haleigh still hasn’t reached out.
And I’ve come to a hard realization… I can’t keep doing this to my heart. It’s exhausting. I love her unconditionally—I always will. And I will always be here when she’s ready. But I think it’s time for me to write one final letter and let her know that.
I’ll pray. I’ll fast. I’ll make sure it comes from love—not pain.
As I prepared this lesson, a thought kept coming to me: she’s not there yet.
Not in the place of unconditional love.
And maybe that’s okay—for now.
Because I know who she is.
She is kind. She is gentle. She has always been that way.
She stood beside me during cancer. During her senior year—when people constantly asked her about me, about my illness. I know that hurt her more than she ever said out loud. And I will never forget it.
And I will never forget her final dance at Highland High… “Curing Cancer, Dancer by Dancer.”
I sat there, bald, watching our little girl cry as she danced to a song she chose just for me.
She doesn’t cry easily.
That moment… it held everything.
I have made mistakes. I see them more clearly now than ever before. But I am so grateful that every day, I can repent. Every day, I can forgive—and ask for forgiveness.
I am trying to become more like Christ. I fail often… but I’m changing. I can feel it—in my thoughts, in my actions, in the way I see people now.
And I want you to know something, too.
Thank you… for asking me for forgiveness—for a lifetime of hurt.
That mattered more than you may ever understand.
And I need you to hear me clearly:
I forgive you.
All of it.
Even the things that almost broke us.
We’ve carried things that could have destroyed our marriage… but they didn’t.
Because love—real love—chooses to stay, to heal, to forgive.
And I choose you. Still.
I love you.
Monya
