This is the note my 5-year-old daughter, Angela, wrote and slipped under my bedroom door, where I had sequestered myself from her sassy, surly complaints on a day when she was being particularly difficult.

I ignored her and her note, so she knocked on the door. Twice. Then she sighed, snorted and cleared her throat.

“Ahem,” she said. “Look under your door.”

I didn’t dare look, knowing Angela’s special delivery would most likely contain some new twist on an old theme: My daughter thinks I hate her, and she takes any opportunity to remind me that I’m the worst mother ever.

She shouts it, cries it and whines it. She draws pictures of the two of us, with her looking sad and me looking large and grumpy. She even makes songs about it.

Last week, she serenaded me with a ditty called, “I’ve Tried My Best, I’ve Tried My Worst, But You Still Don’t Love Me.” I’m no expert, but I think it might have been a country song. Now that Angela has learned to read and write, she puts her guilt trips in the form of nasty letters (which is nice, because now I have something to show her when she becomes a mother). I suppose I have her kindergarten teacher, Mrs. McDonnell, to thank for that.

Angela’s expressions are nothing new. She’s been professing her disapproval of me ever since she learned to talk. She assumes there is hatred in my heart whenever I refuse her request for a second popsicle or I insist that she wear underwear to the playground.

On a good day, she simply scowls in my direction. On a bad day, she screams in my face. Or kicks me in the shin. Or throws her stuffed cow at me.

At first, I regarded Angela’s outburts as something that needed to be nipped in the bud, with extra hugs or discipline — maybe both. But time outs and scolding only amplified her indignation. She hated me harder. She hated me louder.

Then I took her meanness personally. I found a therapist, went on endless Internet searches for information about angry children and spent a lot of time crying in the bathroom.

As a single parent, I figured I had to work harder to convince my daughter that she was loved. I feared that, by divorcing her father, I had somehow cracked her psyche like a hard-boiled egg (which, by the way, Angela also hates).

Then I realized that hate and love are cousins, not strangers. Only someone who loves me would go to such lengths to express their hatred. Only someone who adores and trusts me, and knows that she is adored and trusted as well, would put her deepest fears on paper.

Sometimes hostility is just a test. Sometimes anger is really an affirmation. And sometimes, when you learn to read between the lines, hate mail looks a lot like a love letter.

Now when Angela writes a song about how much I hate her, I compliment her singing voice. When she writes me nasty letters, I remark on her excellent penmanship. And when she is surly and snarky, I retreat to my bedroom, knowing that it won’t be long before she’s knocking on the door.

*This article first appeared on HuffingtonPost.com

On the sidewalk, we walked and she talked – she’s a talker.  I put my hand on the door to Baskin Robbins and she was still unaware where we were going.  My muscles contracted to pull the heavy door open and right as the cold rushed out, she asked, “James, why do people think you’re my dad?”

I froze from the question that a 5 year old girl just asked.  She froze because the open door revealed the ice cream shop and she wanted permission to run in and choose her flavor.

She looked up at me and I gave her the nod and she was off to the races.  Her faced pressed on the display glass to see the ice cream as close as possible was the finish line.  The two young girls behind the counter tracked our every motion.  We were probably two of only a few brave souls that day who ventured out for ice cream in the misty downfall of Southern California rain.

I honestly stopped thinking about the question she asked a few moments ago because I was too busy trying to keep her from pulling down every piece of promotional material teetering on the display case while excitedly saying that she wanted all the flavors.  Eventually she settled for peanut butter cup ice cream, a flavor that was a surprise from her usually colorful pick like rainbow sherbert or cool sounding like rocky road.  But peanut butter cup ice cream it was.

I ordered just one scoop for her and waited for it at the register.  Just a few feet from me was the only kids table in the place which was a tiny picnic table with round disks for seats that were no bigger than a frisbee.  She crawled to the inside of the table against the wall and was flopping with excitement for her scoop of peanut butter cup ice cream.

I sat across from her, with my knees bent into my chest and my back to the world and all my attention focused on her.  Just how she likes it.  I slid her cup of ice cream over and put three napkins beside it, then she dug in like it was the last ice cream on earth.  I told her that I wanted two bites and she nodded then she pulled back a bite that was just about to land in the cavern of her mouth.  I told her that I didn’t want that bite, I’d figure out which bite I wanted and let her know.  She said okay and then went back to enjoying her ice cream.

She was talking less now because she was busy shoveling ice cream in her gullet.  She was trapped on the inside and I didn’t have to worry about her pulling down everything that wasn’t hot glued to the counter.  Both of these things allowed me to relax and take a breath.  My mind drifted to the question that she asked what seemed like days ago, but was only a matter of minutes before.  Before I could dig deep into my thoughts I was distracted by a little chunk of peanut butter cup on one side of her ice cream cup.

I told her that I was ready for my bite now.  She took the little pink spoon and got a tiny piece of plain ice cream and held it out to me and I shook my head.  I told her that I’d pick out my bite, so she finished off the ice cream on her spoon and handed it to me.

I dug in and got a nice combination of peanut butter cup and ice cream. She said, “Whoa, good pick.  I see the good stuff is on the side.”  She’d just been eating bite after bite from the top, not looking around for the diversity of the scoop.  I nodded and said, “That’s right” then handed the spoon back to her.  I told her that I still had one bite to go.

Now that I had a rush of sugar, I was ready to tackle the meaning behind the question she asked me when we entered.  So I asked her, “Do you remember the question that you asked me before we came in?”

She shook her head no, while melted ice cream accumulated around her lips.  I thought it was an important question and I was a little disappointed that she move on from it.  Then I perked up as she said, “Oh, you mean about the money?”

That’s wasn’t the question I was talking about.  That was from earlier when we were adding up a quarter and two nickels to learn about money.  So I told her that wasn’t the question, it was the one after that.  She shook her head again and took another bite.  I said, “You asked me a question about what people thought.”

“Oh” she said, with a mouthful of ice cream, “Why do people think you’re my dad?”

I asked, “Why do you think that people think I’m your dad?”  She wondered if it was because I was a boy and she was a girl and I told her that could be part of it but it’s not really why people would say that.

I asked her the question again, “Why would someone think that I’m your dad?”  She quickly threw it back at me, “Is it because you take care of me?”  I nodded and told her it was.  She then admitted that she confuses me with her dad a lot.  She calls me her dad and calls her dad James.  She said it apologetically and I told her that was okay because I’m kind of like a dad to her.  She said, “you are kind of like my dad.”

“I kind of am” I said.  She nodded and dug into the dwindling scoop of ice cream.  I asked her if I could have my second and last bite before she polished it all off and she handed over the spoon.  This time I took a scoop that had just plain ice cream and left the rest of the peanut butter and chocolate goodness for her.  As I took that bite, I realized that we’re both on a journey to figure out how to put labels on the bond that we have created.  When I’m at work, I refer to her as my kid and she confuses me with her biological father.  I realized that we have a father/daughter bond no matter what description our relationship is given.

~V.

I plopped my body onto a hard plastic chair inside the Department of Health and Human Services and waited for my name to be called.

The office smelled like sweat and cigarettes even though it was cold outside and my seat was near the front door. I wanted to run out, to jump into my car and drive away. Instead I pulled my two-year-old daughter, Angela, onto my lap and hugged her like a security blanket.

She and I needed help. We needed food stamps.

It was April then, and my husband of twelve years had just left me for another woman. Angela and I had moved to Maine to be closer to my parents. There were days when I wouldn’t have bothered getting out of bed if not for my toddler. She needed to be taken care of. She needed to know she was loved.

She needed food.

We found ourselves an apartment and I got a job filling prescriptions in the local pharmacy. Her father was paying some child support but it wasn’t enough to cover the costs of restarting our lives.

My new job was only part time and minimum wage, but it was the only job opening in town. Angela was still in nighttime diapers, which were expensive, and she was growing like a weed. It seemed like she needed new clothes every other week.

For the first time in years, the bills were coming in my name only. Phone, rent, electricity. My military spouse’s salary used to cover the bills. It paid for our house, our cars and vacations.

Those days were over.

“Fontaine.”

The caseworker checked my name off her list. I scooped up Angela and followed the woman to a corner office, where she asked about my job, living situation and expenses. I showed her my lease, pay stubs and daycare receipts. Angela showed her how to sing “Itsy Bitsy Spider.”

Then she told me I qualified for $300 a month in food stamps. That was more than I earned all week at the pharmacy.

I felt like crying, mostly from relief but also from embarrassment. Before Angela was born, I had worked as a newspaper reporter for more than a decade, interviewing presidential candidates and reality TV stars. I had a college degree and a retirement account. Never once had I thought I would need help with something as basic as buying food for my kid.

I felt like hugging the caseworker, but instead I simply thanked her. Then Angela and I drove straight to the market.

The next woman who finds herself in my shoes might not be so fortunate.

This month, the House Agriculture Committee voted to cut $33 billion from the federal food stamp program, known officially as the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program.

The cut would affect nearly every family receiving food stamps in this country. In 2011, there were 46 million people getting help from SNAP. About half of them were children. Another 28 percent were elderly or disabled.

Slashing the program means 280,000 children will also lose the free lunch and breakfast they get at school, since those meals are tied to their family’s eligibility for food stamps.

House Republicans support the cut as an effort to reduce the mounting federal deficit. However, those same Republicans (and some Democrats) also blocked the so-called Buffett Rule, which would have raised $47 billion by forcing the wealthiest Americans to pay a slightly higher tax rate.

Paul Ryan, chairman of the House Budget Committee, proposes a spending plan that cuts Medicaid, food stamps, Head Start, Pell grants and job training – all programs that disproportionately affect kids, teens and women – as it also reduces tax rates for the rich.

To curb spending, politicians are looking not to billionaires like Warren Buffett, who makes more money than he could spend in a lifetime. They are looking to people like me: working parents with inadequate jobs already struggling to make ends meet.

Who wins in this scenario? Who loses? And why is my country preserving tax breaks for the wealthiest citizens at the expense of the poorest and most vulnerable?

I never wanted to be on food stamps. I think few people do. During my divorce, there were days when I had to choose between buying milk for my daughter’s breakfast or putting gas in the tank to get to work. Food stamps made it easier to make those decisions.

Like many Americans, I used the program not as a permanent crutch but as a way to dig myself out of a terrible situation, one that had come about because of circumstances beyond my control.

Of course, there are people who abuse the system, who put their hands out for something they don’t really need. Back in high school, I worked at the supermarket as a bagger and watched customers pay for lobster and steak with their food stamps. They used paper vouchers back then, not the plastic debit cards they use now, and were much easier to spot in the checkout line.

But for every person like them, there were many others like the person I would eventually, unknowingly become – someone who needed help to feed her family, to keep her job and to stay healthy enough to take care of her child.

Someone who needed a boost over the hump.

Angela and I went to the supermarket every Saturday with our food stamp debit card. We bought fresh fruits and vegetables, chicken and milk. Each week, I used a fistful of coupons to stretch every penny of our food allowance.

Three years have passed. Now I am a full-time graduate student working toward a masters degree in creative writing. I have a scholarship from a private foundation that helps journalists, and Angela is five years old. We are no longer on food stamps.

I don’t presume that she and I will never again need help, but I know we don’t need it right now and that’s good news.

If I learned one thing during our year on food stamps, it is that everyone needs help at one time or another. No matter how smart or successful we think we are, life can turn on a dime. The walls we build to protect ourselves can be knocked down in an instant.

For me, the federal food stamp program was the safety net it was designed to be. If House Republicans get their way, that safety net won’t be there to catch the next person who falls.

Just the other day, I found the journal I kept back then. In it was a letter that I wrote to Angie when our lives were at their most chaotic.

Now, three years later, it seems almost as though some other woman wrote it – a scared, confused mother named Wendy. I reread the letter, and was struck by what this mother was about to go through, what she was about to endure and what she would, eventually, accomplish and learn.

If I could, I would reach into the past and give that woman a hug. A pat on the back. A wink, a nod or a squeeze on the arm – something to let her know that she was going to be OK.

But maybe she already knew that.

Here’s the letter:

March 2, 2012

Dear Angie,

I’m watching you sleep. It’s your naptime. One o’clock in the afternoon on a snowy Monday. Your cousins are home. There’s no school for them today. We are having quiet time together here in our bedroom. Just you and me.

You are sleeping so peacefully, curled up under the ladybug bedspread. You still have your pajamas on from this morning. I didn’t see a reason to change you, or myself for that matter.

You haven’t moved a muscle since I laid you down under the covers twenty minutes ago. I love your stillness. Your face is soft. Your breath is slow. I love this quiet respite in the middle of the day.

I’ve been struggling lately, Ang. Your dad has been calling us. He misses you. I’m not sure yet if he misses me. I’d like to think so but I’m just not sure.

I’m not sure if I should be telling you this, but I’m waiting to see if he will fight for us. He asked us to come home, come back to New Jersey so we could talk. I said no. Jersey isn’t our home right now. Maine is home. This house full of cousins is home. For now, anyway.

We might go back there some day, Angie. I’m not sure yet. There are things I need to hear from your father first. Things I need to know, to hear, to feel. I know that probably doesn’t make sense to you and maybe someday I can fill in the blanks.

Just know that I haven’t given up hope. Hope is somewhere deep down inside my heart. It’s a flame that is barely burning.

But also know, Angie, that I’m still taking care of you, still taking care of me. I’m still working on a new life for us, just in case.

I’m not sure what is going to happen next. I don’t know what to expect. And I’m trying to accept that I don’t know all the answers. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, Angie, but it just might also be the most important thing.

Love,

Mama

When we got home, Angie made space for our new roommate atop a nightstand in her bedroom. She named him Biff, in honor of the goldfish from her favorite cartoon, and decorated his new digs with drawings of sharks and killer whales.

The little guy seemed happy. He swam through plastic seaweed by day and bedded down in the pebbles at the bottom of his tank at night.

After a few months, though, Angie lost interest in Biff. Just as I had expected, her pet became one more thing for which I was responsible. Until one day I changed his water too hastily, and found him an hour later floating in the folds of fake seaweed.

Angie was still in school, so I drove straight to the pet store.

“You have to help me,” I said to the shop owner. “I need another Biff and I need him fast.”

We found a copycat betta, though he wasn’t quite the same. His tail was shorter and he seemed grumpy, but for less than four bucks he would have to do. I took him home, plopped him into the tank in Angie’s room and waited for kindergarten to let out.

The new Biff was boring. He barely swam. He hardly ate. He had a habit of poking his head out of the water as though he had a death wish. Angie, thankfully, never suspected a thing.

When the second Biff went belly up a few weeks later, my first instinct was to return to the pet store and spare my daughter the disappointment of a dead fish. I found a few dollars on my desk and started looking around for the car keys.

Then I stopped.

I didn’t want Angie to be sad, but if I kept buying new Biffs, what would I be setting her up for in the long run? Instead of facing disappointment, would we simply be postponing it?

Life inevitably brings disappointments – little ones, like a broken Silly band or a twisted Slinky, and big ones, like a breakup or the death of a loved one. Facing the smaller ones now might help my daughter deal with the bigger ones later on.

Besides, I always figured that Angie had suffered the biggest letdown of all – her parents were divorced. Her father was no longer part of her daily life. What could be worse for a kid than that?

Over the years, I have tried to make it up to Angie. I have given her dessert even though she hadn’t eaten her vegetables and taken her to the playground even though she hadn’t behaved, thinking those actions could somehow compensate for the pain of missing a parent.

Then I realized that what I was compensating for was never really there. Angie missed her dad, but she was only two years old when her father and I split up; she remembers almost nothing of the time when the three of us lived as a family. Disappointment has not been her enduring emotion since the divorce.

It has been mine. And the person I was trying to pacify for that was not my daughter. It was me.

I put the money back on my desk. I set down the car keys. Once again, I waited for kindergarten to let out.

That evening, as Angie and I were settling into bed, I told her the truth.

“Honey, I have to tell you something,” I said. “Biff died today.”

She sprung from the covers.

“What? He died?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

She looked over at the empty space on her nightstand, at the drawings of sharks and killer whales.

Too often we think our children feel exactly as we feel. We project our emotions onto them and then try to save them from our own hurt, shame or disappointment.

Maybe we don’t need to do that.

“Biff was a good fish,” she said, “but I think my next pet should be a shark.”

~Wendy

Her mother shares her address with me, her food with me and her bed with me, but she still firmly refers to Angie as “MY daughter” and has no gray area when it comes to her daughter.

She still refers to herself as a “single parent” and thanks me for “watching” Angie or “babysitting” when it’s not a job or a chore or a favor. It’s just what needs to be done as Angie’s father figure and the third vertex of our family triangle. It’s not important if she thanks me or doesn’t thank me for watching Angie, it’s not about her words. I want her to know that I’m part of the team, not just a fan watching the game from the stands.

I get that I’m not the primary care giver. I do put in long hours at work so I’m not there much during the week and a lot of time I have work to do on the weekends. I give as much as I can when I am present. I did have a period of time when I wasn’t working for a few months when they first moved in with me in 2010. I read books to Angie at night and I fixed her breakfast and lunch and dinner and made sure she had her gummy vite. I did pretend I was her master and she was my Kung Fu student. I did watch her when she ate to make sure that she didn’t choke on anything, even though I found that to be overkill. I didn’t do these things all the time or even the majority of the time, but I did strongly participate in the caring for Angie and still do as much as I can.

I understand her mother’s hesitation. We have no handshake deal or contract written in blood that we will always be together, so she can’t let me in that far. That doesn’t make it easier when I have a 5 year old living with me and I’m trying to be a role model and a teacher and a coach and a friend to her. Angie’s hesitation to look at me like a father is going to continue because her mother is hesitant to think of me like that. Angie doesn’t have to hear her mother say or not say things, she takes her cues from how her mother acts or feels. She can tell when her mother is scared or happy or in a bad mood or in a good mood and that influences Angie. Her mother doesn’t need to spell it out for her. Her mother thinks she hides her emotions well, when really she wears them on her sleeve.

Angie has a sense that her mother is putting me up on a shelf, just out of her reach. No different than a sharp pair of scissors that are beyond her reach for her protection, not for punishment. Angie doesn’t know how to explain it; she just knows that there is something keeping our faux-­father/daughter bond walled off. When Angie and I have a day together or an overnight together, she forgets that her mother has put up the translucent wall between us. We forget that we have different last names.

I feel most that Angie is not MY daughter when I try to put in my two cents about parenting when I’m not asked. I do have thoughts on how to raise Angie. I have thoughts about some of the positive things to draw on from my childhood and some of the negative things not to do. Many times when there isn’t a crisis and I give my opinion about raising Angie, I sort of get a “don’t tell me how to raise my daughter” look. Angie’s mother is more likely to give my parenting advice weight when Angie is terrorizing her and she’s been backed into a corner by Angie’s behavior. A time when many parents would not have easy solutions for dealing with an irrational 5 year old girl. That’s the time when I’m put on the spot for my thoughts; when the solutions are the most elusive.

Include her!

It seems like a simple concept to include your child, but it is easy to get swept away with the needs and wants of the household and simply deter the child urgently pulling at your pant-leg by directing her to the play kitchen or her baby dolls.  Sometimes you need to bake with her though – not for her.

My favorite bread recipe is simple and requires no raw eggs or milk (which is a good thing when a tot’s little finger tips are involved). So with this in mind a few months ago I thought I was prepared for that very first baking session with my toddler. I pulled out all the ingredients I would need and littered the counter top with them, adding in a pretty vintage mixing bowl to quell my own aesthetic needs and desires.

So I measured and she poured; I stirred and she scooped; I kneaded and she pounded. It was a successful endeavor less one broken vintage mixing bowl lost somewhere between the scooping and the pounding, but the task at hand was soon complete and together we had created two lovely loaves of bread.

I had fashioned many loaves of bread before that day, but never had I felt so sated. Until that day, the presence of my child had come to change a once delighted task to somewhat of a hurried chore – stuffed somewhere in between the dishes and the laundry.  On that day though, I felt empowered. I had survived and now could thrive. Breathe. Laugh at broken mixing bowls and that tiny little face beneath a coat of flour, dough and olive oil. Just be. And share the love and joys I’d once known well with that little love of mine.

~Amber Lee, mother of Eva Lorraine, from Huntsville, Alabama

When I woke, I was tended to by an aftercare worker as usual and led back to the reception area where I would meet Nick and be driven home as usual. But this time was different. I knew he was Nick and also my fiance, but I had no memory of him leading up to that moment. He was a familiar stranger. We returned to home which was also seemed strange to me, the home that both Nick and I had worked on. I couldn’t find things. Pictures around the house and in photo albums were of people I knew but could not remember, and I had no recollection of our dating.

It was time to pick up the kids. I knew that they were my kids, I just had no memory of them. And the worst part was that I was also missing all my feelings that come with memories leading to that present day.

My mom told me to” fake it ’til I make it.” What does that mean? Pretend to love my kids and Nick until it’s real? Look at photo albums and watch homemade movies until I remember? Incidentally, I didn’t remember being married to my ex either. Was this memory loss a blessing in that regard? I was going to have to make new memories.

The first time driving my car I needed to teach myself how to drive. I had forgotten how to use my window buttons and cruise control. I became paranoid that companies were hacking into my checking account and I opened a new one. I found out later that it was just my music service and student loan payments. I had gone to college and worked as a social worker but I did not remember anything from the trade. I no longer liked animals where I used to love bunnies. The medicine at the time left me with Tardive Dyskenisia, an unusual facial expression that freaked my family out. None of the medication was working and I continued to cycle in and out of the hospital until March of 2011.

March came and so did my latest hospitalization. My doctor decided to end the cycling and keep me inpatient until we found a medicine that worked. Keep in mind that I had been in the hospital 16 times since 2009. This time my treatment lasted a month and a half but finally worked! I have managed to stay out of the hospital since May.

This time when I came home I was able to feel the normal range of emotions. Did this mean I would also begin to remember? During my therapy sessions we would talk about my progress and process my awakened feelings. Yes, I was no longer having to “fake it”. I was beginning to recapture the feelings I have for the kids and Nick. As of today, I can remember up to my first year of college – with bits and pieces of the rest. Nick and I are dating to try to regain memory of our relationship and make new ones in the process. The kids never knew that I didn’t have my previous feelings for them. They just know that mommy is back. I attend a women’s group, individual therapy and attend my monthly medication management appointments to continue discovering the new me.

~Kerri, mother of two from Lincoln, Maine

I love this picture of me.

The look on my face sets up the story line, of course. Jealous. Angry. Frustrated by that awful itchy thing that someone dressed me in that day – for somebody else’s birthday party, no less.

I think the girl in this picture wants a slice of cake. She wants the limelight. She wants out of that dress.

I see my daughter in this picture. I hear her grumpy voice. I can almost hear her patent leather shoes scuff out of the room, disgusted with the entire day.

Some people say my daughter and I look alike, but most people say we don’t. I agree with most people; we look very different. But in this picture, I see my daughter’s feisty spirit – and that’s why I love it so much.

~W.

I have mixed feelings. I am impressed on how she can remain in a relationship for that long but I know how much more painful it will be when they eventually split. I remember how intense the feelings were as we professed love for each other as only kids that age can. Planning an unrealistic  future with your beau  only to laugh at yourself years later as you mature and deal with reality.

I suppose she is setting a good example for her brother as he observes behaviors and tries to figure out dating and love.  At 9 he is still in the crush years but he has already claimed to have a manual for love entitled “Romance Manliness.” What happened to giving your best valentine to your crush, secret admirers and sitting by your girl/boy at lunch?

~Kerri, mother of two from Lincoln, Maine