Today a writer shares a heartfelt confession with readers, hoping it comes across as humility rather than arrogance. The aim is to offer a candid glimpse into a long personal journey through writing and memory. The topic unfolds with a simple question: what does this really matter to anyone who reads it? Those who grasp the point may choose to stop after the first paragraph, and that is fine in the moment.
On the day Carla, the author’s only daughter, was born at El Ángel Hospital in Malaga, a diary began to take shape. It was not a strict daily diary, since there were days with nothing notable or busy travel, and other days when multiple entries appeared because something remarkable happened. The record now spans seventeen and a half years. This morning, the diary was reminded to focus on the interior as much as the surface, and the message felt clear: the interior is perfect.
The author recalls feeling happiness many times for starting the diary on Carla’s birth day and for never letting go. The journal advances with purpose, now totaling exactly 1472 pages. The author once told Carla that the plan was to close the diary when she turned eighteen, a question Carla asked with curiosity about why that specific age was chosen.
One great joy in writing this story came from discovering it later, realizing memory does not preserve every detail. There were many dates, phrases, names, and events that required careful checking in newspapers. The diary serves as a family memoir written and interpreted from the heart of one member.
The entries are written in a direct, intimate style, spoken as if in conversation with Carla, which explains why each volume bears the same title: Let me tell you, Volume I, Volume II, Volume III and so on.
The author writes by hand and has noticed his handwriting growing a bit shakier, a reflection of the aging process while the writer remains determined. Most pages include a short note about each case studied, and sometimes a photograph, a movie ticket, a plane ticket, or a vacation bracelet punctuates the text, adding visual texture to the letters.
As time passes, the diary feels like a valuable historic record that may speak to future generations, capturing childhood and adolescence through a father’s voice. It traces the evolution of language, travel, minor illnesses, birthday celebrations, clever answers, lasting friendships, school experiences, and, most of all, everyday life.
The diary is written during a period of recovery from a broken foot, echoing a style from an earlier book that explored reciprocal teaching and personal liberation. Questions often arise about why this particular literary approach exists, and the answer surfaces in moments when writing simply flows without resistance.
The author sometimes receives gentle nudges from Lourdes, Carla’s mother, and Carla herself, urging that certain moments be recorded in the diary.
During a retirement moment, a faculty tribute and farewell ceremony brought personal reflections. In the speaker’s own words, the diary is mentioned with pride, highlighting its role within the family narrative.
-
I am proud of all the books my father wrote, but the one he wrote for me the most.
The blank books gathered from bookstores and airports around the world carry value through their hard covers and unique designs. Though they are similar in size, each one feels different, forming a meaningful emotional legacy.
From the moment Carla was born, she grew into a thoughtful teenager with her own opinions, two steps ahead of the writer. How did this miracle happen? A recent surprising request emerged: Carla asked for a volume to be written for times when her father would not be present.
Day by day the author considered the request but found courage slow to rise. Relatives, teachers, friends, and even early loves appeared in the newspaper stories along with the inevitable mentions of loss. The father kept writing, and the diary continued to fill with life.
There was a memory of language from more than seven years ago when a trip to the conservatory with Carla brought a moment of playful honesty. The child spoke with a wit that is both startling and endearing, turning a simple question into a memorable line about the nature of language.
Years of travel through Latin American countries—Argentina, Chile, Mexico, Bolivia, Colombia, Uruguay, Paraguay—shaped a rich tapestry of experiences. When Carla was seven, the writer announced a trip to Chile, and Carla asked how many days the journey would last. The exchange, and the plan, linger in memory with humor and warmth.
On return, a thoughtful letter reached Carla from Chile, written by teachers who wanted to share the writer’s wisdom with their students, describing how the father would bring meaningful lessons to the classroom. Carla read the letter and suggested a response. The writer prepared a reply and then realized Carla might craft her own words. The reply to Chilean teachers emphasized Carla as the heart of the relationship, humorously noting that future trips would be shorter but just as meaningful.
Francesco Tonucci inspired two short stories drawn from newspaper anecdotes. One day, while driving to school, a traffic jam turned into a moment of calm when Carla offered a lighthearted perspective about being late and the joy of a party that would not miss its cake, magician, and pinata.
In 2016, a request was made to speak at a Congress of Narratives in Mahón, with the unique condition that Carla attend the conference. The author invited her, and she asked two practical questions about financial support and VIP treatment. The response was simple yet telling, and the lesson was clear: the experience mattered more than accolades, and the moment of sharing carried the real value.
Preparing the conference involved shared tasks, rehearsals, and a final presentation before hundreds of teachers. While many important figures appeared at rounds and discussions, the day belonged to Carla in a way that surpassed every other moment for the writer.