Dear Amanda,

Rummaging through a box of old audio cassettes the other day, I came across one that refreshed some memories. It's a pre-recorded tape by bluegrass artist Claire Lynch; on its label is hand-written: "To The World's Greatest Dad." That's your writing, Amanda. I remember when you gave me that tape.

It was during one of your many long summer visits, probably about ten years ago. You, your brother Ben, and I had gone to southern Wyoming with some friends to attend a bluegrass concert of several days' duration. The area was beautiful: high, flat, and open, it had patches of Ponderosa woods and large granite boulders. We were camping, in tents. We passed our time attending performances, walking among the trees, playing on the rocks, visiting, and generally enjoying ourselves in the crisp, dry, clear Wyoming air.

I don't remember who the various artists were, but I recall being especially taken with the beautiful voice of Claire Lynch, and I remember how surprised and happy I was when you gave me that tape.

I was particularly pleased by the inscription. I was "The World's Greatest Dad," and we knew that. Of course, fulfilling that role was easy in the company of The World's Greatest Kids: you and Ben.

How wonderful our shared times were! We were a temporary family of three, and we were free to celebrate our love for each other.

Scroll forward to December of 1998, when you sent me a letter saying you no longer desired to communicate with me in any way. How could your love for me have changed so profoundly?

The answers to that question are intricate and fascinating. They tell a tale of deceit, treachery, and manipulation. They tell a tale about the "church" of Scientology. It's a tale I need to relate.

This is my version of that story. It is also my gift to you for your eighteenth birthday. It is the truth, as I perceive it; as such, it is the most loving gift I can offer.

You see, dear daughter, for all we've been through, I do love you, very much. I miss you terribly.

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