This is the difficult bit. If I got this right, you’re reading this letter a week after we left in the TARDIS. The thing is: we’re not coming back. We’re alive and well and stuck in New York, 50 years before I was born. We can’t come home again, I won’t ever see you again and that breaks my heart.
I’m so sorry, Dad. I thought about this for years and I realised there was one thing that I could do, I could write you, tell you everything about how we lived, about how, despite it all, we were happy. But before I do, I need you to know…
you are the best dad any son could have had.
And for all the times I drove you mad and you drove me mad, all the times I snapped at you… I’m sorry. I miss everything about you, especially our awkward hugs.
I bought a trough, we have a small yard, a garden. But one more important bit of business, the man who delivered the letter, Anthony. Be nice to him…
because he’s your grandson.
We finally adopted in 1946: Anthony Brian Williams. He can tell you everything, he’ll have the family albums and I realise having a grandson who’s older than you is so far beyond weird.
But I’m sorry. I love you, Dad. I miss you.