Dear Beckett,
One of my shortcomings (or superpowers) as a father is that I treat you like an adult.
The outcome of this is a combination of weird, hilarious, poignant, and at times, sad series of events.
I once got annoyed with you and called you out for crying too much when you were 3 days old.
On your part, you've always been more mature than your weeks, months, and years.
Still, I've always expected more from you.
It comes for my misplaced sense of responsibility; that it is my job to help you become the best version possible of yourself.
This is misplaced because the best version of yourself is you and not the image I have in my head.
Nonetheless, I'll always expect more from you.
I'll always want you to punch 2 levels above your weight class in whatever you do.
Treating you as an adult also means that I trust you to make the right choices for yourself.
This too has resulted in hilarious and often annoying outcomes.
Like you get to call me Samyak, Gattu, and almost every random moniker you come up with whenever you want.
Or that our apartment is currently an effing rainbow colored orgy.
This too comes from one of my misplaced notions that adults ought to know what they are doing.
When I clearly know firsthand that there is no such thing as adulting.
We just keep making things up as we go along.
You also get a complete view of our lives, all the good, bad, and ugly-ness.
And you handle all of it brilliantly.
Like a champ, always punching two levels above her weight class.
I steadfastly try to pass my love of reading books and music to you.
But you, with mind-boggling tenacity, choose to exercise your right to not accept it.
So I feel immensely happy about one thing as your father.
That you've embraced without any prodding the highest of all human ideals - Freedom.
May you always be free - in thoughts and in actions.
You'll understand this completely when you read Atlas Shrugged at 17.
Or when you get married.
I'll now end this letter before your mother finds out what I've been up to.
