April 16, 1912

Dear Father,

I only now know what happened. Mother told me but a few hours ago. She says that she doesn't know what happened to you. She says that because you are a man that it might not be good because women and children need the lifeboats more. But I will send this letter anyway in case you get it. In case you're still here and can.

I couldn't help but to be upset when she told me. I know that I should have been kind to her - but that was such a large secret to keep. You know that, don't you? Would you want somebody to keep something like that from you?

I did not expect the news. It's hard to believe that none of my friends at school told me. Perhaps they didn't want to bring it up. I have spoken all about how you were getting to ride the best and biggest ship in all of history. I was so excited. Even though Mother wasn't.

I do hope you ignored her when she told you it was pointless to take the Titanic as opposed to a different ship - one less grand, and therefore less expensive. I knew you were right, Father. That this was a piece of history. That you being on this ship ought to mean something and that it was a good of a way as any to get to the states. I only hope that you being on this ship was a good piece of history. Even as I write this I worry. The chances aren't that bad, Mother says. But the way she says it, I can tell she isn't so sure that what she is saying is the truth.

I feel the worst for Florence. She is too young to understand what is going on. She is only four years old, Father. Mother made me tell her - she says that she doesn't know how. Neither do I. I looked at Florence and I told her that you have gone on a trip but some bad things have happened and we aren't sure when you will come back. And she asked me how long you would be gone for. I can't answer that question, Father. I told her we didn't know. I wasn't lying. I don't know when you will be back. I don't know if you will be back at all.

I have to admit, Father, writing that part was painful. I'm trying to stay optimistic, but what can I do? You never liked boats - you said they were untrustworthy, you know this - but you also told me that the Titanic was invincible. Unsinkable. You're always right. Or at least I thought you were. But we all make mistakes sometimes. That was something you told me. And you were right. We all do make mistakes, even you.

But it wasn't only you who told me these things. Mrs. Simmons told me too. I went over to her house to have tea one day. I didn't tell you that, but I did. And she said that I need not worry about anything bad happening because the Titanic was the mightiest ship to ever be built. That it was just as sturdy as Olympic. Perhaps it was, but now I will never get to see it.

What was it like, Father? Was it the most amazing thing you've ever seen? I've never been on a long boat ride, let alone one on such a great ship. I heard that it has a swimming pool and seven different dining rooms. Is that true, Father? Nobody at school seems to agree on what is inside the ship. I said that I can tell them because you were going on the ship and they thought that was incredible. I do agree, Father.

Even now, I am avoiding the subject this letter was meant to be about. And that is the fact this letter may not ever reach you. I dare not speak of the reasons why, but we both know them. Very few people know what I am going through - not only is this sinking a national tragedy, it also could be a personal one for me. I love you, Father. And I doubt I could have the same life without you. This is why I try to not think of what could happen. But it is hard. I must consider that there is the possibility I will never see you again.

I will continue to tell myself the same things. That you will be okay. And that you will be with us once again very soon.

Love,
Ruth