They say that confession is good for the soul. I’m afraid if I tried to list out every single sin I’ve ever committed, I’d never finish this letter to you. Early on after my sentencing, I visited with the chaplain quite a bit. He kept asking me if I was sorry for killing my husband.
I’m sorry, Justine, but that’s the one thing I can’t apologize for.
I’ve forgiven Dennis. That much I can say.
But I’m not sorry I killed him. If I hadn’t, he would have destroyed me and you as well. I’ve searched my Bible, and I’ve begged God to change my mind if I’m wrong, but I can’t regret the fact that he’s dead.
The chaplain said that’s a sign of unforgiveness. I told him he’s never had to kill anyone to save his little girl.
I don’t mean to tell you I’ve lived a perfect life. I struggle every day with anger at the men on that jury who put me here. But I can’t change what’s past. I can only try to make amends for the future.
I’ve already told you I’m dying. I don’t know how much longer I have, but sometimes as I’m drifting off to sleep at night, I can hear the heavenly music that soon is going to call me home.
I know you might read my words and decide I’m making it all up. You’ve read about your father’s journal, how manipulative he said I was. I imagine that there’s part of you that wants to believe I’m innocent and another part of you that might always harbor doubts.
I can’t prove to you that anything I’ve said here is true. I can’t make you believe that killing your father was the only way to save our lives. You’ve read about me online, I’m sure, and have probably already come to your conclusions about who I am and what my motivations were and how reliable of a witness I am.
Just remember, Justine, that looks can be deceptive. Your father had everyone fooled — the doctors, his coworkers, his friends. The jury. Except I have no proof to offer you. Nothing conclusive to guarantee my innocence. God alone knows what really happened. He is my witness as well as my judge. I’ll admit there are times when I wake up from terrifying nightmares. I’ve just died, and God tells me I can’t come into heaven because there’s blood on my hands. And I pray and I plead and I ask him to show me grace. I wake up crying.
I believe God will judge me justly when my time finally comes, and I rely on his grace to cover all my mistakes. I know you aren’t all-knowing like the Lord, but I couldn’t die peacefully thinking that you believe a lie about me, about who I was, about why I did what I had to do.
My conscience, my soul, my eternal destiny are in God’s hands now. All I can ask is that before I go home you hear my story and tell me that you understand.
Then I can die and finally be at peace.