I’m not sorry that he’s gone. I think it’s important to get that out of the way. If I were to tell you all that he put me through … oh, well. The jury didn’t want to hear the details, and I assume you don’t, either.
That’s fine with me.
But I don’t want you to think I’m terribly heartless. You can think of these pages as my confessions of sorts. I don’t know. Maybe you’ll burn them after you read them. That’s fine with me.
As long as you read them first.
That’s all I ask.
The jury didn’t get to hear the entire story. I realize nothing I’ll say here can change what already happened, but it’s important for me to tell you that I’m sorry.
I’m not sorry he’s dead, mind you, but that certainly doesn’t prove that I’m the one who killed him. Did I think about it? Yes. Fantasize about it? Sure, but that’s not breaking any law. You can’t prosecute a woman for murderous thoughts. It’s just not how things work in a free society. And yet here I am.
Here I am.
I didn’t murder him.
I don’t know if you’re going to believe me or not. I don’t blame you for hating me, for believing everything those newspapers wrote about me.
But I didn’t murder him.
I loved him, in a sick and twisted way. I was lost without him. Entirely and utterly lost.
And I’m sorry for your sake that he’s gone.
I didn’t want to leave you so young. I didn’t mean to abandon you like that.
But it wasn’t my fault.
I’ve looked up details about the family that adopted you. Seem like nice folks. Salt of the earth kind of people. I hope they did right by you. I know it’s too late now, but I would have liked the chance to thank them. For taking you in. For raising you right.
I wasn’t ever planning on contacting you, but then I heard that your parents had passed. I was mighty sad to learn it, too. Here you are, barely in your thirties, and you’ve lost just about everyone.
I wish I could have changed things for you, but we’ve all got our own path to walk. Yours, I’m afraid, has been riddled with difficulties and pain, and for that I’m truly sorry.
You probably don’t want to hear this from me, but I’m proud of you. Proud of the woman you’ve become, the mother I know you are. You love that boy. Trust me, I know it. And now that you’re a mother yourself, I hope you can understand a little more fully why I did what I did.
How I ended up here.
That’s why I’m writing you now. To tell you my side of the story. I know I might not be able to change your mind, but I want you to hear me out. Think about what I’m telling you. Then you can decide for yourself if that jury was right or wrong.
I want the chance to tell you my side of what happened. To assure you that I didn’t murder your father. That’s all I ask of you, Justine.