“It’s the truth.”
“You expect me to believeyouover my mother? The woman who was here for me every single day of my life while you weren’t?”
I swallowed. I wanted to ask her what, exactly, my ex had said, but there was no point in starting a fight.
“I’m telling you the truth,” I replied. “And your mom was right; I’d forfeited my right to make decisions about your life the moment I chose to …” I stopped.
“Chose to what?” Gwen leaned forward. “Kill someone?”
The word hung between us like smoke.
“Yes.”
She was quiet for a moment. Processing. Like she debated changing the subject, but something told me based on her body language that this was a question she’d lost sleep over. “So, why did you do it?”
There it was. The question she’d been building toward. Perhaps the only reason she’d been willing to come see me today.
“Gwen …”
“I’m serious.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. Tried again. “I’ve spent years trying to understand. Mom won’t talk about it. The internet just has news articles that don’t tell me anything meaningful. And I’ve built you up into this … this monster in my head because that’s easier than wondering.”
She looked down at her hands. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper.
“You were supposed to be my dad.”Supposed to be.“In your email, you talked about the wonderful memories you had of our time together. But if that was true, then WHY did you throw it all away?”
“Why did you throw it all away?”
“I know it wasn’t self-defense,” she continued. “If it was, you wouldn’t be in here. You wouldn’t have pled guilty. So, whatever that man did … whatever reason you had …” She looked up at me, and I saw it then. The little girl who used to crawl into my lap during thunderstorms. The one who believed her daddy could fix anything. “What could possibly be worth this? Worth missing my whole life?”
Harper’s similar words echoed in my head.
The words sat on my tongue. Heavy. Poisonous.
I could tell her. Right now. I could explain that the man I killed was a predator who had been watching her for months. That the police had found evidence on his computer that made seasoned detectives vomit. That I had spent fourteen years researching what happens to children who learn they were victims of something unspeakable, and some articles said the knowledge itself could become a wound that never fully heals.
I could tell her, and she might understand.
She might forgive me.
I might get my daughter back.
But at what cost?
She would spend the rest of her life knowing. Wondering. Replaying every childhood memory and searching for signs. The nightmares she’d have. The paranoia. The way she’d flinch when men looked at her too long, not because of experience, but because of possibility.
I had already taken her father from her.
I would not take her peace of mind too.
“I can’t tell you that,” I said quietly.
Her face crumpled. Just for a second. Then the walls went back up, and hurt hardened into something sharper.
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Both.”
“That’s not good enough.” Her voice rose. “You owe me an explanation. You owe me something.”
