“I’m gonna kill you both.” That’s what Denis told me. That’s what I believed.
I’ve talked with the chaplain about it quite a bit since I’ve been here. Told him that the only thing I feel guilty about is that I don’t feel guilty.
Am I a sociopath? Am I the monster the media made me out to be? The monster I’m sure you believe that I am?
He would have killed you, Justine. As sure as I know you’re my daughter, sure as I believe God will usher my soul into heaven to stand in his presence any day now, I knew your father meant to kill us both.
I couldn’t let that happen.
If you had never been born, I wouldn’t have cared. I would have given up years earlier. But you were so little, so beautiful, so perfect. You loved me. Trusted me.
And you loved him too. Your innocence was completely unaware of the pure evil that lived inside that man.
I took the knife. How could I watch while he slit open your throat? How could I sit by and do nothing?
I took the knife, and in that moment, I knew.
Either I would survive, or Dennis would.
There was no way he and I were both going to come out of this alive.
And since my brain was working for the first time since your father put me on those drugs, since I had the adrenaline surge that comes when a mother watches her child in danger, I did what I had to do.
Your father’s attorney and the judge were right. I shouldn’t have run away after that. Shouldn’t have taken you in the car with me and tried to skip town. I didn’t even realize you were bleeding until we were halfway to Toronto. We had to stop, had to get you medical attention.
If it hadn’t been for that, I like to think we might have made it across the border.
I used to spend a lot of time thinking about that scenario. An alternate reality created entirely in my mind while I sit here, cold behind these metal bars.
We cross the border. I smile and tell the crossing agent we’re going to do some shopping. Smile at him nicely, make small talk about exchange rates.
I don’t know a single person in Toronto, but it’s a big enough city that we manage to get by. I go to one of those women’s shelters, take you there with me, explain that we’re in danger. I left my ID, everything I had at home.
Eventually, we learn to start over. I get a job working as a nanny for a rich family. They have a little girl just your age, and the two of you become best friends. We go to church. I teach you about the Lord. We pray before meals and sing songs in the car.
Life is beautiful, Justine.
And we never, ever talk about your father again.