I know that Marie’s death hit you hard in the days after the funeral. All you needed in the world was the shoulder of your son to cry upon. I know I wasn’t there. I know that I should have been, and for that I am truly sorry.
Moreso, however, I am sorry for the circumstances that led to my absence, the reason I couldn’t be there and the reason I can never let you weep for your child on any shoulder of mine.
I know that when you read these words you will most likely throw down this letter in disgust, disregarding the rest of its message and so, I will tell you now. Throw it down. Walk away in tears, vow to disown me and erase all memory that I ever was your child, but please, do not destroy this letter.
In the days, weeks, months, or years to come when the sting has faded a little, the wound at least partially healed, you can come back to this letter and read what remains after the hurt.
It is my story, my confession and my reasons. First however I need to tell you.
