I didn’t want to disrupt your life. I can only imagine you meant it when you told me in no uncertain terms that you didn’t want to have anything to do with me.
I’m sorry, Justine. I really am. I wanted to be a good mother to you. I wanted to give you the life that you deserved.
It sounds bad of me to say, unnatural somehow, but I think you were better off with those rich folks who took you in. I know it wasn’t easy. I’m sure growing up in the suburbs had its share of hardships, but it was a better childhood than I could have offered you.
I don’t regret what I did, Justine. I only regret that it ruined any chance of having a relationship with you.
That’s why I begged you to come and see me now. You probably don’t know this. I made him promise not to tell you, but I’ve been writing to that husband of yours. The rich lawyer. He seems like a nice man, Justine. He really does. And I’m happy for you. For the life you’ve created and that little family of yours.
Your husband knows about my condition. That’s the real reason I need to see you. Why it can’t wait any longer.
I’m dying, Justine. Cervical cancer is no picnic even if you aren’t serving a life sentence for murder.
I didn’t want to tell you until I saw you face to face. But it can’t wait. Doctors have given me a few more weeks, a month or two if I’m lucky. But given my track record, Justine, I don’t put much stock into things like luck.
I told your husband. I didn’t tell you. I was worried you’d think I was being manipulative. Conniving. But it’s the naked truth. By this time next year, you’ll be a complete orphan.
I’m sorry, Justine.
I would have liked to meet you again under more positive circumstances.
There’s a journalist I’ve been talking to, nice young man from back East. We’ve been working together for the past year, putting together my story. I’m not allowed to profit from the sales, you know. That was part of the court order.
The journalist tells me that my book has bestseller potential. It’s not even done yet, and he’s already found some publishers who want me to sign on the dotted line. But I’m not going to do that until I get the chance to talk with you first.
You’re the only surviving relative of your father’s. That means anything I make from the sale of my story will go directly to you. I know you’re not worried about finances. That husband of yours has you set for life, and I’m glad to hear it. I don’t want to think of you and my little grandson suffering for lack of anything.
I’m not writing my book for the money. It’s not for the infamy either. Trust me, I had my share of that during the trial itself. I’m sick of it all. But it’s an important story to get out there. Might even help women in situations like mine.
I just want to clear my name.
I don’t want you to live your life as the daughter of a murderess.
I want you to know what happened.
It’s time for you to hear the truth.