Thanks for not calling me on my birthday. I know your absurdly high-maintenance wife probably wouldn't let you call since it might cost money that might one day be hers—after she slowly bleeds you dry and decimates your manhood with her manipulations, stressing you out to the point where you will eventually collapse of a heart attack even though you were in perfect health when you met her. I'm so glad that you've allowed her criminal son to live in your stupid, overpriced colonial, steal from you, drink your rare wine collection, use your credit cards, and otherwise stomp all over that thing you used to call a spine—all because you're afraid to lose his mother. She is a disgusting piece of shit, and you are all the more so for having let her create this vacuous fault between us. I have no interest in being your daughter any more. I used to think you were my best friend. I wanted to name my first child after you. But now I know I will never have children, in the fear that I will one day become the phony piece of crap parent you have become. Enjoy your trip to Spain. I hope you and the trophy wife choke on paella and fucking croak.