I am sitting in my kitchen at 2:14 AM and I feel like a thief. My daughter graduates from university in two days. She is the first person in this family to get a degree in this country. I wanted to do something special, something different from the way my father treated me. He just nodded when I finished school. No words. No hug. Just a "good, now get a job" look. I sat down with a legal pad and a fountain pen to write her a letter. I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to tell her how I felt when we landed at the airport thirty years ago with two suitcases and no plan. But the words stayed stuck in my throat. I sat there for three hours. I wrote "I am proud of you." I crossed it out. I wrote "You worked hard." I crossed that out too. My English is functional. I can write a report for an engineering firm. I can argue with a contractor. But I cannot make the language sing. I cannot make it show the weight of what I feel. Every time I tried to write something deep, it sounded like a manual for a washing machine. It was dry. It was cold. It wasn't enough for a girl who stayed up until 3 AM studying while I watched her from the hallway. I opened that chatbot on my phone. I saw people talking about it on the news. I typed in a simple prompt: "Write a graduation letter from an immigrant father to his daughter about sacrifice and pride." I thought it would be garbage. I thought it would sound like a Hallmark card. It didn't. In five seconds, the screen filled with sentences that made my chest ache. It talked about "the silent language of labor" and "the dreams we carried across an ocean so you could walk across a stage." It used words I have never said out loud but have felt in my bones for three decades. I copied it. I didn't even change much. I just sat there at the table and transcribed the machine's words onto the paper with my own hand. I wrote about "the echoes of our ancestors" and how she is the "answer to every prayer whispered in a language she barely speaks." My handwriting looked steady, but I was shaking. I felt like I was wearing a mask. I used my best pen—the one she bought me for my 60th birthday—and I filled three pages with beautiful, soulful prose that I didn't invent. I read the letter back to myself and I started to cry. That is the worst part. The words were so perfect they moved the person who stole them. I saw my own life reflected in the code of some server in California. It knew how to describe my sacrifice better than I do. It knew how to tell my daughter she is my greatest achievement better than I ever could. I am her father, but a computer has more heart than I have vocabulary. I felt small. I felt like a failure who had to outsource his love to an algorithm. She is going to read this letter after the ceremony. She is going to think her old man finally found his voice. She will probably frame it. She will look at me with those bright eyes and think I am a poet. She will think I finally understood how to bridge the gap between our worlds. It is a LIE. I am just a man who knows how to use a search engine because his own tongue is too heavy with the past. I am a fraud. I am a ghostwriter for a machine that doesn't even have a soul. People talk about technology taking jobs. They don't talk about it taking your role as a father. I should tear it up. I should write "I love you, keep working hard" and leave it at that. That would be the truth. But I won't do it. I want her to have the beautiful version. I want her to believe she has the father who can say these things. I will stand there in my suit and I will take the credit for words I didn't write. I will watch her cry over a lie. I am 68 years old. I have worked every day since I was fifteen. I have built a life, a home, and a future for my children. But I couldn't build a single paragraph to tell my daughter who she is to me. I had to cheat. This is what it means to be old in this world. You have all the feelings and none of the tools. So you use what you find. You hide the shame and you let the machine do the talking. I hope she never finds out. If she does, she'll realize her father is just a quiet man with a very expensive phone. THAT is the truth. And it stays here.