When my 7-year-old daughter, Lily, came home from school in tears, clutching her backpack like it was the only safe place left in the world, my heart shattered. She collapsed into my arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
“What happened, sweetie?” I asked, crouching down beside her.
Her voice cracked through the tears. “Mrs. Carter said… she said you must regret having me.”
My jaw clenched. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How could a teacher—someone trusted to guide and nurture children—say something so cruel to a child?
Without hesitation, I drove to the school. My thoughts raced with anger, and by the time I reached her classroom, I was fuming. Mrs. Carter was sitting at her desk grading papers when I walked in.
She looked up, calm and unfazed, as if she was expecting me.
“I assume you’re here about Lily,” she said, quietly setting her pen down.
I didn’t bother sitting down. “How could you say something like that to a child? My daughter came home sobbing. Do you realize how much damage words like that can do?”
Mrs. Carter didn’t raise her voice. She simply looked at me with tired eyes and said, “Mr. Rowan, have you checked your daughter’s bag?”
Her question caught me off guard. “What does that have to do with anything?”
She motioned to Lily’s backpack, still slung over my shoulder. “Please,” she said gently, “before we talk further, check the front pocket.”
Confused but still angry, I opened the bag’s small front zipper. Inside was a crumpled piece of notebook paper. I pulled it out and unfolded it. It was a drawing—a stick figure with big eyes and a frown. A large red “X” was drawn over the figure’s head. Above it, in a child’s handwriting, it read: “My dad doesn’t love me.”
My heart dropped.
Mrs. Carter leaned forward, her voice soft. “She drew that during art today. She was quiet and distant all morning. When I asked her about the drawing, she wouldn’t speak. I tried gently asking why she felt that way, and all she said was, ‘My dad wouldn’t care if I disappeared.’”
The words hit me like a punch to the stomach. “But… I do. I love her more than anything.”
“I believe you,” Mrs. Carter said. “But Lily doesn’t seem to feel that right now. Sometimes children say things when they’re confused or hurting. I didn’t tell her you regretted her. I asked her if she thought you regretted having her. And I asked it gently, not to blame you, but to understand where her feelings were coming from. I’m sorry if it came across harshly, but I promise I was trying to help.”
I sat down slowly, the anger dissolving into guilt and worry.
“I had no idea,” I muttered, staring at the drawing in my hands. “I’ve just… been so busy lately. Work’s been a mess. Her mom and I separated last year. Maybe I haven’t been as present as I thought.”
Mrs. Carter nodded. “Children don’t always understand adult problems. But they feel everything. Your absence, your stress, your silence—it speaks volumes to them.”
I took a deep breath and looked at the drawing again. “How do I fix this?”
“Start by talking to her,” she said. “Not about school or homework. Talk to her heart. Let her know she matters. Make space for her feelings, even the ones that hurt to hear.”
That night, I sat on Lily’s bed as she hugged her stuffed bear. I showed her the drawing.
“I found this,” I said gently. “Can we talk about it?”
She looked away, eyes filling again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you mad.”
“I’m not mad,” I said. “I’m sorry I haven’t been the best listener. Things have been hard lately, but that’s no excuse. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. And I will never, ever regret having you.”
She looked at me for a long moment, and then her small arms wrapped tightly around my neck.
“I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you too, Lily. Always.