Your leg was cut. To this day, I don’t even know how it happened. I’m so sorry about that, Justine.
We had to go to the hospital. I tried to come up with a story. You were standing on a chair. You wanted to chop veggies like you’d seen Mommy doing. You tripped. You fell.
The doctors didn’t believe me.
I started shaking uncontrollably when they brought the policeman in. At first, he thought he was questioning me in a case of suspected child abuse. He had no idea I’d just ended your father’s life.
But the truth came out.
I suppose it always will. At least, that’s what the Bible says. Still, I like to indulge myself in daydreams from time to time, think about that nice lady in Toronto who might have hired me as a nanny, think about her imaginary little girl who would have become your best friend. It’s not what actually happened, but I’ve dreamed out the details so vividly I can tell you the scent of the family’s laundry detergent, feel the matted hair of their beloved little puppy, a mutt who’s just as endearing as ugly.
I’m sorry that’s not the life I could have given you.
I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you my story sooner.
I’m just glad that soon you’ll be here, that I’ll be able to explain to you what really happened, apologize to you for all the mistakes I made.
I can’t believe I’m about to look at you face to face. I just pray God gives me a few more days, that my body holds out a little bit longer.
I need you, Justine. I need to tell you the truth. That I didn’t murder your father. That I never would have deliberately lifted a hand against you if my life depended on it.
That I loved you so much I would have done anything — yes, even kill — to keep you safe.