Dear love,
I guess it’s time I confessed. It’s been on my mind for a long time, and the only reason I haven’t said anything is because I know how many people would be hurt by my words. If my position were different, if family wasn’t an issue, let me confess… I wouldn’t be here.

I love my family, even the partner who I no longer share a bed with. I’m pretty sure most people think I don’t love him, but it’s not true. I love him deeply, but no longer as the ‘gay young lovers’ we once were. The love we had, the passion and adoration, no longer exists. If I had had a brother, he is the one I would have chosen. A friend, someone who supports me and does not question my decisions, only watches me muddle my way through them and picks up the pieces at the other end. I love him my way, and most people would say ‘my way or the highway’ is akin to a motto for me. Read the rest of this entry »

To the man who let her go:

You don’t know me. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know you either, but I know of you. I also know your type. I also know and love someone you once claimed to love too. I suppose we have that in common, but that’s where the sameness ends. The biggest difference between us: I am smart enough to see that which was right in front of you and you neglected and abused.

How you could you look into her eyes and not see the love shining back at you? How could you look at that beautiful, soft face and not feel the desire to want to hold her, love her, touch her?

I don’t understand why you kept her at arm’s length. I don’t understand how you missed all the beauty both inside and outside of and around her.

She healed you inside. I know you felt it. I know you felt her healing touch, her love. I know you craved that from her. I crave it too, but I appreciate it, nurture it, treat it like the precious thing it is.

She made you feel like a man. I know. I’ve felt it too. I know you craved that from her as well, which is why you call, still, and try to be something to her that you never were, never will be again.

She never made you happy though, and somehow, you blamed her for that, never realizing that the reason for your unhappiness was inside of yourself, and not her fault… or anyone else’s for that matter.

It would be easy for me to dislike you, even hate you. As I said, I really don’t know you. But I do know that I am angry with you, and I wanted to tell you so. Out of respect for her, I know I’ll never get to tell you this in person. It’s a shame, because part of me wants you to hurt as badly as she was hurt by you.

I’m angry with you because you made it hard for her to trust me. When she and I first met, she was gun shy, afraid to commit, scared to risk her heart again.

I’m angry with you because you made me work harder to win her over, to prove to her that I love her, with all my heart. I never minded the work. She’s worth it. But that was time she and I could have been spending together, in love, sharing our lives, that you took away from us because of the damage you have done.

I’m angry with you that even now, after telling her yourself that she deserved more, you still call her or email or message her asking her to give to you something that is precious and should be reserved for that person who does give her more.

I’m angry that men like you say all the right words, throw all the right guilt, and push all the right lines to make women fall for you, and you abuse and misuse the trust they place in you, making it hard for people like me who would never take advantage of a true heart.

Yes, I’ve held her while she’s cried about you. Yes, I’ve listened to her when she needed to talk about you. Yes, I’ve been there for her when you should have been and weren’t.

And yet, there’s a part of her heart I’ll never hold. That part of her heart she gave to you, that she still, in part, reserves for you… hope, wishful thinking, past dreaming… it just doesn’t matter. You have damaged a part of her that I can never repair, never even touch.

And I hate you for it.

We will never meet, you and I, because you have your wife and she now has me, and life goes on for everyone. I know she still wants to be friends with you, because she’s a good-hearted woman and I would expect nothing less from her, but I know you and your type. The first time you call her up for a little phone sex, “Just one time, just one more time?” and she says no to you again, it’ll be longer before you call the next time, and then longer still, until eventually you just disappear from her life.

Years of friendship, love, gone.

You’ll never even realize how much you’ve lost, how much you let slip right through your fingers.

But I do.

I realize it every night I lay next to her in bed and feel her breathing slowly and put my arm around her waist and even in her sleep she reaches up to hold my hand. I realize it ever time we make love and I see her lips parted, her eyes full of lust and love, hear her rapid breathing and soft moans. I realize it every time I tell her I love her and I see the wonder in her eyes at hearing it.

One day, maybe she’ll fully believe that love, and maybe one day, she won’t flinch at the memory of you and how you used her. Maybe one day she’ll be able to give herself over completely to me without having you wedged in between.

So yeah, I hate you for what you’ve done to her, but I have to thank you for setting her free for me to find and love. You made me work a little harder, but as I said, she’s worth it.

After all, I truly do love her.

I do.

You’ll never know how much you walked away from, but I do.

But I do.

Sincerely,
The one who held her close

Dear wife,

I suppose I’m supposed to say that it’s your fault I am sleeping with your husband, because you didn’t take care of his needs or you didn’t do what a good wife should do, or some other nonsense. We both know that’s not really true. Infidelity isn’t the fault of the faithful spouse most of the time, and the truth is, your husband is just not a faithful man.

I’m not in love with him. Not sure I ever was or will be in love with him, but you see, for me, he is safe. Safe because he has you. And you, you’re safe because he has me. I know him and his past, a past he’s tried to hide from you (though I think you know more than you let on) and if it weren’t for me, he’d be out there sleeping with lots of different women. At least I’m clean. You won’t catch anything from him through me. After all, while he is a cheat, you and I both are faithful women.

That part is just justification though.

I know that sleeping with your husband is wrong. I do know that, somewhere deep inside of me, and in that same deep place inside, I feel guilty about it.

I can give you reasons, but they truly are nothing more than excuses. I try to tell myself that you really do know about me, and that you just choose not to say anything, so that I can sort of convince myself that it’s okay, since you silently endorse our relationship.

Truth is, I don’t know if you know about me or not.

What makes it hard for me is… I like you. I really like you. You’re a kind woman, with an honest heart, and I know you love your husband. You have a strong Catholic Christian faith, and you believe it is your duty to love him, no matter what, until death do you part.

Honey, even the Christian Catholic church allows annulment in the case of infidelity.

But that wouldn’t be honoring your husband, would it? You take your vows seriously.

I don’t know if that makes you devout or a fool. Sometimes I want to believe it’s the fool, just because that absolves me of some guilt.

What? You didn’t think I felt guilty? I do sometimes. Then there are other times I justify it by saying that you have a better marriage with him because of me. He loves you, you know. He really does. He reveres you in his own way and he admires you. I’m actually jealous of you sometimes.

Then I remember that I don’t really want him, and I can slip back into being the ‘other woman’ again.

I’m not saying it’s right. I’m not saying that any of the justifications make it right. Maybe if you’d lived my life you’d understand why this ‘safe’ relationship I have with him is necessary for me right now. I don’t expect you to understand. I’m not asking for forgiveness or absolution.

I can’t apologize to you for hurting you. I never did intend for any of this to hurt anyone. It’s selfish, I know, but maybe, just maybe, what you don’t know can’t hurt you.

But I do want to thank you, even though I know you’ll never read this letter. So let me say it now, for me… Thank you for sharing him with me. Thank you for loving him enough that he is safe for me to spend a few stolen nights together. Thank you for your strength and commitment to your marriage. Thank you.

Sincerely,
The ‘other’ Woman

Dear you,

When you got off work that night, I expected you to come home, like you always did.

But you didn’t.

Three days later, me frantic with worry and having called all your friends and family, you finally called me. I’ll never forget those words, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Did you take that line from one of the cheesy nighttime soap opera type dramas you used to watch all night long instead of talking to me? Maybe you heard that line on one of the sim-type video games you played all day long instead of being a part of the household, a part of the family.

I don’t know where the line came from, and even more than that, I’m not sure what you meant by, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Do what? You can’t sit around all day while I wait on your hand and foot, working 12 plus hours per day, while you work your 20 hour per week part-time job? Or maybe it’s that you can’t sit around and do nothing but eat my home cooked meals? Or maybe you are so worn out from all the lovemaking we weren’t doing?

Really, what exactly was it that you couldn’t do anymore?

So then, without even talking to me about what was going on, where you were going, who you were going to live with… nothing, you come by, tell me you wanted to pick up your things. I sat on the bed, watching you pack your clothes, numb, cold. Ice.

“Are you going to help me pack?” you asked.

Are you serious? “No,” I said, choking back tears, “if you’re going to do this, you’re doing it on your own.”

It would be the first thing you did all by yourself in our entire relationship.

If I’d known then what I know now, I wouldn’t only have helped you pack, I would have asked you to leave sooner.

You walked out the door, but you didn’t walk out of my life. Oh, how I wish you had.

A few months later, in a phone call, you had the nerve to say, “I guess we both made mistakes.”

Was that your version of closure? Trying to get me to take some blame? No, I didn’t make mistakes. I had and have nothing to apologize for.

I did nothing wrong.

I held you when you cried. I initiated sexual activity while you rejected me. I cooked for you. I cleaned for you. I washed your clothes and had them ready for work. I made and packed your lunches for your part-time job. I waited on your hand and foot, doing all the things a ‘good little wife’ would do. I listened to every story. I laughed at every joke. I loved you the best way I knew how.

The only thing you could accuse me of doing wrong was working too much, but with a growing family, and you only having a part-time job, someone had to pay the bills.

That someone was me.

So you’ve come and gone, moved on to the person you cheated on me with, and likely have moved on to the next person you cheated with too.

Nothing of you remains in my house, my life, my heart.

But still, I think of you. There’s no love behind it. There is, however, a residual sadness… a sadness I cannot explain and do not understand. A sadness I do not choose to touch. And yet, it lingers there.

Unfinished business.

There is no closure. It’s a self-destructive thing that I won’t give you closure, because by failing to give you closure, I deny myself that closure too.

Though I’ve moved on, though I am happy, though I’m finally with my heart’s desire whom I love so very much, I still can’t give you the one thing you need and want.

Apparently, I couldn’t give it to you when we were together, so now we aren’t together. Now that we aren’t together, I refuse to give you want you want.

You don’t deserve it.

But I do want to thank you. Thank you for making the choice to leave, a choice I should have made but wasn’t strong enough to do. My life has become infinitely better since.

Goodbye,
Me

—

The writer of this piece wishes to remain anonymous, but will be reading your comments, so please leave some!

My child,

I have so much to say so please bear with me. It’s strange how life can twist and turn and your life-long fantasy of how things should be just drifts away with the next breeze that blows by.

I wanted the perfect life for you. I wanted to be able to give you everything and anything you wanted. To say that I have always wanted you would be an understatement. I have longed for a child and was blessed to find out that you were going to grace my life in a short nine months.

Your father and I were together since I was 15 years old. Everyone warned me that, although he might be fun to date, he would never provide me with security and was not “marriage material”. I didn’t listen. I wanted to believe he would change and that my presence in his life would make him want to be a better man.

We married and my life became clear. My life would consist of never having a home of my own and working long hours just to support my husband, who would not even attempt to leave the house or his video games. We lived with my mother and I adjusted to his ways. He was an adult who never grew up.
Yet, I convinced myself he would change.

Breakfast every morning would consist of him being served first and my mother and I could have the leftovers, if there were any. He was to be picked up after, reminded to bathe, and heaven forbid we ask him to do something in the house.

For years it continued and it was my fault. I allowed it to happen.

And then my life changed. I found out I was pregnant and that you would be entering my life. I have never been as proud as I was that moment.

Things became reality when I knew that a life was beginning inside of me. From day one, I treasured you.

As the months went by, things continued to get worse with your father.

Your father started dating other women and became abusive to me.

The night that changed everything was when he hit me in my stomach at a public gathering and announced that he would end your precious life.

He was arrested and my mother and I packed our stuff and left.

I never looked back.

At that time, I was five months pregnant and in distress. My life, the one that I hoped would be perfect, was gone.

For reasons only God knows, I met Wayne. We became instant friends. He was my support system through the rest of the pregnancy with you. I could tell he was just as much in love with you as I was.

The day you were born ended up changing both of our lives forever. Wayne decided he would be your Daddy and that what I thought was just a friendship developed into more – he told me he loved me.

I have worried how I would tell you about your real father and this is it. I never meant to hurt or confuse you – and I know you don’t understand right now because you are only three years old – but I wanted the best for you.

We both have a family now – a real one.

You now have both a Mommy and Daddy who love you so much, as well as two little sisters and a little brother (hopefully) on the way soon!

So yes, my little one… I chose who your father was and made a mistake, but God made the decision on who your Daddy would be and everything is perfect.

Love,
Mommy

~~~

Author wishes to remain anonymous, and is using the pen name C. Peters.

Brian,

When you left, I wanted to be angry. I couldn’t find it in me, but I wanted to be angry. Sometimes, in anger, you find strength and I desperately needed strength. But I couldn’t get angry. The only thing I felt was sadness. Overwhelming sadness.

You left me for someone else. You lied about it, but I knew the truth. I had always known the truth, all along, but knowing and wanting to see or act on the truth are different things. I was miserable, but somehow, I was comfortable in my misery. It was familiar. It was… safe?

As I knew would happen, you left… and that’s when I wanted to be angry. Eventually, a few months later, the anger did hit me, and the more I became angry, the more I learned about the truth of your deception… oh, how many months I played a fool.

What fueled my anger? I was angry that you thought I was stupid enough that I didn’t know.

I knew. I knew all along. I was imply too tired, too miserable and too sick to do anything about it.

So you did what I couldn’t bring myself to do and you left. You left me for her. I will never forget the day when I discovered the whole, unadulterated truth of adultery… your adultery, infidelity. You broke my trust, but that wasn’t really even the worst of it. You kept me hanging on by a thin thread, ‘just in case’ things didn’t work out between you and the whore who you let seduce you.

Typically I wouldn’t call the other woman a whore, because I’d figure she was simply lied to by you as much as I was, but in this case, it was very clear she knew exactly what the score was when she posted blog posts laughing about how stupid I was for not knowing how long this had all been going on. She laughed, reveled in it.

You used me, and yet, I truly put as much fault and blame on her as I do on you. You see, you used me, but that’s just who you are. She knew better and chose to act the way she did. I don’t think you can help it. It’s not an excuse, but it’s the truth.

So when you came to me and I finally confronted you, I told you then, “She’s going to cheat on you, do to you what you just did to me, and she’s going to break your heart and trust. I hope I’m there to see it when it happens.”

Guess what? I was there. It happened, and I was there.

And I learned something. It’s true that what goes around comes around. It’s true that we get back what we put out into the world. It’s also true that living well truly IS the best revenge.

When you asked me if I was happy, and I said I was, I could clearly hear the sadness in your voice. You had hope… hope, such a volatile little word. I had hope once. I had hope for a family and a friend and a lover who I could trust, who would treat me right, never hurt me, never break my trust. You promised those things to me, and you failed.

Now it’s you who comes back to me and has hope. You want me back. You regret so much. You miss me and wish you had never made the mistakes you have made. You still love me.

But I don’t love you anymore.

Do you know how powerful it is to be able to say that and truly mean it?

See, I don’t wish you ill will. I don’t want you to hurt. I’ve moved past you and on with me life. There was a time I sought revenge and wished you ill, but I don’t anymore. Now, I just want you out of my life. I don’t hurt for you anymore. I’m not angry anymore. I’m not sad, not upset, not worried, not bothered… I simply… don’t… care.

Retribution.

Universal justice.

And I didn’t have to do a thing to make that happen.

I’m not happy you’re hurting, but I don’t hurt for you. I’m not taking pleasure in your pain, but I’m not feeling pain for or with you. I’m not excited that my prophecy came true.

But I am satisfied.

So did I write this letter to gloat, brag about how good my life is?

No.

I wrote this letter because I want to thank you. I want to thank you for treating me so horribly that I could recognize, truly treasure, when someone came along who treats me good. I want to thank you for leaving, so that I was free to choose to love when he did come along. I want to thank you for being strong enough or stupid enough to walk away when I was not strong enough to do so for myself.

I also want to thank you for giving me back my faith in the universe, perhaps even my faith in God. I’ve always been told that you reap what you sow, that what goes around comes around, that what you put out there comes back to you multiplied.

Guess what? You proved that. Thank you for proving that to me. That you for affirming my faith in universally dealt justice. Because, you see, if it’s true that you reap what you sow, I’ve planted a nice harvest in my world, my life, my heart. I know now that it will all come back around for me.

In fact, it’s already started…. It started when he said, “I do, with all my heart, I do…” and it continued when you said your life had come full circle.

Now I move forward firm in the knowledge that I will get my due, reaping a harvest of love, faith, generosity and gratitude.

For the first time since you left, I can honestly say, “I wish you well…”

No longer yours,
Karla

Dear Catholic Church,

As a Catholic who left the church many years ago, I’m sure you think this letter will be full of repercussions. After all, I am an ex Catholic…well, sort of.

I left the church because I divorced my husband. Yes, I had very good reason to leave him and was told that I could apply for an annulment, but he would have to agree. He didn’t agree. For my own safety, I did not want him to know where I lived and so I let the opportunity of annulment go. That was years ago.

I went on a journey of discovery after that; a journey that lasted more than twenty years. I became very metaphysical then, spiritual instead of religious. I was very enlightened. I read everything I could read and attended classes and meetings with others of like mind. You see, from the time I was a very young child, I had experienced very strange things–things that couldn’t be explained. I decided that religion was for the comfort of man and not for the comfort of God.

God was no longer God; He was known as the “universal truth”, the “source” and just plain “light”. Jesus was floating around there somewhere with angels, but most metaphysical people don’t mention Jesus. He might be considered the “source” or not.

Those strange things I had experienced my whole life weren’t miracles; they were signs and gifts. Did you know that if you stared at a leaf long enough, you can see the individual cells of the leaf and its aura too?

There was no such thing as Satan and nobody was evil. Someone may act evil, but in essence they only act that way because of their own life experience. If someone is raped or murdered in this life, its because they themselves had been a rapist or murderer in a past life. But to move on in their spiritual growth, they had to experience what they had previously inflicted on someone in a past life.

I loved the readings too. All of these metaphysical people were so wise, so connected to the universe and beyond! They told me I had been hurt badly, that a friend had betrayed me and that my path had been rocky in life. They really knew me. I was often very frustrated because they seemed to be so much more spiritual than I was, on a much higher plane of consciousness.

And then one day all of that changed. It was the day all of my very strong beliefs were not only questioned, but they just flipped over. Like magic. No, more like a Miracle. It was 9-11.

On that day, I knew Satan existed. On that day, I knew there truly were evil people in the world. Not the poor, abused people who had reason to strike out against the rich uncle. No, these were well-educated and rich men. Crazed and possessed men. They were evil. I knew it; I knew it in my heart. As we watched beheadings in horror, I began to pray to God again. I made the Sign of the Cross and prayed. And I got goosebumps.

Now goosebumps are a big thing in the metaphysical/spiritual realm. Goosebumps tell you that what you are thinking is on the right track. Goosebumps “verify” that what you think is true. So goosebumps when I prayed for the first time in years was a very good thing. To my still metaphysical mind, it meant that I was supposed to pray.

Surprisingly, one of the first things I prayed was the Apostles Creed. As you know, it sums up what Catholics believe in. Now the metaphysical person in me thought there must be a reason I picked that one off the top of my head. To me, it was a “sign” that I needed to get back to my roots, back to being a Catholic, even if it was only in the comfort of my home.

As I studied my old religion, imagine my surprise to see just how closely the “spiritualism” I had been practicing had religious roots. But those roots were greatly discouraged during meetings or events. No religion. One religion. The Universal Truth. The Source. The Light.

I opened my eyes to the truth of it all. I have to say that I feel very qualified writing about this, because I’ve been on both sides. When “the Secret” came out, I was amazed. Amazed that it took the world by storm, thanks to Oprah. But the Secret wasn’t a secret at all. It was a compilation of every book I had ever read and written in such a way that the reader thinks the writer must be very wise. The writer takes snippets from books that were written a hundred years ago and books written twenty years ago. It’s just another scam by people looking to make money, in my humble opinion. It’s a condensed version of every book I’ve ever read regarding spirituality and metaphysicians.

I began to see that I have always known the “truth” about myself, it’s a gift God gave to me when I was born. You see, my parents weren’t Catholic. Dad was Greek Orthodox and Mom was a Lutheran. Neither one were churchgoers. But, at three years old I used to cry until somebody took me to church. So I went to many churches in my little town; I went with whoever would take me. I was up and dressed and ready a full hour before services started. So as a child I went to the local United Bretheren church, the Pentecostal church, the Methodist church and the Catholic Church.

Now why would such a little kid have such a need? Religion wasn’t discussed in my house, my parents didn’t stop me, but they certainly never influenced me. And at the age of about eight years old, I chose to become a Catholic. So, I was Catholic by choice. I followed everything, I went to First Fridays and Rosary Circles; I was in the choir. I went to confession and communion every week. I went to church several times a week for years.

Now, for others reading this, you might think it’s because the church was my “only” social life. Not so.. I was a very popular kid in school. I got good grades and made friends easily. I was a cheerleader, too. To me, church was never a “duty” or a chore, it was a joy.

Upon my “awakening” after 9-11, I did a lot of thinking. Meditation was such a big deal in metaphysics, yet here I was, reading my Daily Missile and there it was in black and white… daily meditations. Weekly meditations. Special meditations. Hmm, so Catholics meditate? I’m sure I’ve always known that, but it never “hit” me until then.

The “signs” that were so stressed in metaphysics were also a part of the Catholic religion. The mysteries of Jesus Christ, the mysteries of Mary, the mysteries of the Holy Trinity, the mysteries of the Holy Spirit and the mysteries of faith.

The beauty of looking at a leaf and really discovering each cell was also part of the Catholic Church for me. This may be the reason I chose the Catholic Church in the first place. It was hushed, it was beautiful, it was awe-inspiring, it was sacred. It felt holy and that feeling was always inside me anytime I entered the church, whether with the congregation or on my own. I felt connected to God the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit there. I was connected. And that was the little parish of St. Anne’s. I loved it.

You should always remember this letter Catholic Church, because if you keep your churches holy, sacred and awe-inspiring, you will always have new Catholics. Some of us just can’t help it. The sacred act of the Eucharist fills our eyes with tears and our hearts with joy. The unchanging mass brings stability to lives in turmoil and the beauty of the churches brings rest and comfort to a weary soul.
So thank you Catholic Church, for instilling in my heart the true love of God, the sacrifice of Jesus Christ and the hope I have for my eternal rest. Thank you for teaching me about the bible, about our Savior. Thank you for your traditional ways. Thank you for naming the Beatitudes, I just love that name because it really describes the Sermon on the Mount. Beauty.

Thank you Catholic church for the thousands and thousands of good and decent priests and nuns; those special ones who are called to serve mankind–To serve the hungry, the sick, the grieving and the poor. And do it with grace. Thank you for Catholic Charities that helps people pay electric bills and buy food and pay their rent and adopt babies. God bless them in their selfless mission in this life.
Thank you Catholic Church for EWTN TV, so those like me who can’t physically go to mass have the opportunity to participate in the rosary and the mass. I thank you for the sense of mystery and miracles that now take the place of metaphysical signs and magic. But most of all Catholic Church, I thank you for keeping the church the way it’s needed…traditional, sacred and holy.

Your Loving Daughter,

An Awakened Metaphysician/Spiritualist

~~~

“Awakened” is a recovering metaphysician who actively pursued metaphysics as a lifestyle and income for more than twenty years. “Awakened” read Egyptian Cartouche Cards for others and used the Ouija Board and channeling for herself. “Awakened” now cringes at how naive she was and prays that others like her will awaken to the truth soon.

Dear David,

Fifteen years ago, you came into my life, and I had no idea I would one day look back on you as the biggest mistake I’d ever made. You see, I believe that everything in our lives strengthens us and prepares us for where we are now, and if we like where we are, we shouldn’t change anything.

And yet, I still would go back and wish I had never met you. That has to show you the distaste I have for you.

Worse than that, I still shudder and feel unclean, dirty, filthy when I think that I ever let you touch my body, and I feel guilty that I ever enjoyed it, relished in that touch. Worse yet, I feel ashamed that I ever thought I might have loved you.

The things you have done to me don’t even matter, though the lies, the using me to get what you wanted… they don’t matter. That doesn’t matter.

When our son… correction, MY son, told me what you had done to him, I felt as though a shard of ice and pierced through the center of my chest and the coldness began to spread through my body. I comforted my son, questioned him, carefully–after all, I’d been trained in victim advocacy. I knew what to do, right? Do you know what it’s like to have to do that with your own child?

The ice stayed in me, freezing my emotions enough to do what needed to be done. I called Child Protective Services, asked them what to do. They told me to call the police. I called the police. The officers who came to the house were nice, but they were obviously as uncomfortable as I was with the situation.

My son waited in his room while I talked to the officers on my front porch, so he could not hear, would not have to relive it. They arrange for him to meet a counselor at Harmony Home, an agency that helps children who have been sexually molested or abused. The appointment was set for 10am on Monday.

It was one of the longest weekends of my life.

Monday morning, we sat in the waiting room, my son, barely seven years old, was playing with a teddy bear they had given him to make him feel more comfortable, and was drinking a juice box. He was nervous and asked me what they were going to do to him.

I said, “Baby, they’re not going to do anything. They just want to ask you some tough questions about your… daddy.” I nearly choked on the word. Any man can be a father. A real daddy would never do what you did to a child, especially his own child.

How could you?

Then, they took me to that little room with the video monitors, where they were recording my son. I watched while they pulled out the dolls and questioned him. I watched him squirm in his seat, so uncomfortable. Then I watched him point to the penis on the male doll and heard his little voice say, “Daddy asked me to touch him there.”

But just when I’d heard what I thought was the worst of it, I watched him twist his little hands and say, “Then some white-ish gray stuff came out of it, and daddy told me to get some toilet paper. When I didn’t move, he yelled at me to hurry and made me cry.”

He was too young to know how a man’s penis works during ejaculation, David. He shouldn’t have known that for many years to come. But to yell at him for not moving fast enough to clean your cum off? How could you?

Then, the reason it had taken him four weeks after it happened to tell me came out. He said, “Daddy told me that if I told mama, he would get in trouble and wouldn’t get to see me anymore. He said if I told anyone at school that I would get in trouble and go to the principal’s office for swats. Am I gonna get spanked?”

Tears streamed down as I quietly sobbed in the dark observation room. When my son came back out, I was in the waiting room, drying my tears. He said to me, “Why you sad, mama?”

How could you?

The cops believed him. I believed him. My entire family believed him. But you, you said he lied. You denied every bit of it. You told your family I had made it up because I was jealous and angry that you had recently remarried. You told your church that I was using it to deny you the right to see your son, but still get your measly 200 bucks per month in child support.

You can keep your goddamned money, and I’d gladly pay that and a million times over if I could go back and erase what you did from my child’s heart and mind.

That was in November. By next June, the case had been filed with the DA, and we were waiting to go to court. I was driving back from an off-site job in a nearby city when my cell-phone rang.

It was you, David, calling me. I nearly drove the car right off the road in shock. I pulled over and sat and talked to you. You admitted everything. You said you’d signed a confession. You explained how you had lied to your congregation and how it was false prayers they were praying. You said you’d told your wife everything.

Then you asked me how my son was.

Then… you asked me to please have mercy on you, that you had talked to the DA and he was willing to drop the case, and all I had to do was sign an affidavit of non-prosecution.

My hands were shaking. My heart was racing. If you’d been standing in front of me, I might have punched you.

I might have killed you where you stood.

As it is now, I don’t remember what I said to you. I don’t remember anything else about that trip back to the office either. I don’t remember calling the DA to confirm, but they said I did. You did tell the truth, finally.

But I was still furious. The ice I had felt to get me through it all had started to crack and white hot flames filled me with a rage unlike any I’d ever felt.

I thought the worst was over, though.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Just when things were calming down in our life and getting back to normal, I made a flippant comment to someone in my household that my daughter overheard. The comment was, “Sometimes, when we can’t control someone else’s actions, we can change how they react to us by changing our actions.”

Simple statement, but it somehow triggered something in my daughter.

When I questioned her, she began to cry. She told me, through a tear stained face, that when she was 9 years old, you had done the same thing to her.

Her guilt?

She felt it was her fault that you had done it to her brother, because if she had told, you would never have been around her brother, and I could have stopped you.

My guilt?

I had failed to protect both of my children from a predator… why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t I know? I WORKED in this field. I’m not stupid. I’m not one of those woman who stay with a man and pretend not to see.

I truly did not see.

How did I miss it?

How could you?

But the truth is, we’re not the guilty ones, David. You are. You are the guilty one. You’re the one who signed the confession and admitted to me what you did to my daughter.

She’s over 18 now. She can chose to prosecute you now. She has until her 23rd birthday to fry your ass. I don’t know if she will, but know this, beyond any doubt: I will support her 200% plus if she chooses to prosecute against you.

My son… he’s not okay. I make it as okay as I can, but there are issues now, because of what you’ve done. He doesn’t call you dad or daddy anymore, hasn’t in a long time. Been years since he’s seen you, but I can still feel the pent up anger in him when he snarls your name, “David.”

He thinks it was his fault. He was 7 years old, and he thinks it was his fault because he didn’t say no. He thinks it was his fault because, “… but mama, I kinda wanted to touch it.” He thinks it’s his fault because he wanted to make you happy.

How sick do you have to be to twist the mind of a child like that, David?

Do you really think the two weeks you spent in the mental hospital and the pills you now take make up for anything you ever did to my son? To my daughter?

To me?

You can repent. Maybe your God will forgive you your sins, but I’m not divine and I do not forgive you.

And you want to know what makes me the angriest, David? Do you want to know what gets me, deep down in my very soul?

You asked me to show you mercy. You asked me not to prosecute. You asked me how my son was and expressed relief when I said he was fine. You admitted the truth. You signed a confession.

But the one thing you didn’t do…. The one that pisses me off the most… the one thing that still burns deep down in my gut, deep into my soul…

You never once said you were sorry for what you’d done.

I can only conclude, David, that you truly have no remorse. Your only guilt is that you got caught.

When I think of you working on an abused children’s ranch, my blood runs cold and wonders what you did to those kids. When I think that you worked as a youth counselor and coach at the Y, I shudder. When I think about your niece and nephew you used to babysit, I want to cry.

Predator. Pervert. Asshole.

You make me sick. The thought of you makes me physically ill as I sit here and write this to you, knowing I’ll never send it. No good would ever come out of it. I don’t want to open up a dialogue with you. I am happy you are out of our lives.

But part of me wants to know… why did you never say you were sorry for the pain you caused?

I heard a quote awhile back that said, “Hate is a poison that does more damage to the vessel in which it is stored than does to the object on which it is poured….” After reading that, I let go of my hatred, I let go of the hate.

But I keep the anger tucked safely away inside of me. It is my strength when I need it. When things get tough, when my son has a bad day, I pull that anger out and let it fuel me to be patient and understanding of him, for him.

To be both the mother and the father he doesn’t have.

The father, the daddy, you will never be again.

To him, you are David, his sperm donor. This is what he calls you.

To me, you are evil personified.

One day, when my son is grown and successful and happy again, in spite of what you did to him, when he has a healthy sexual relationship with someone he loves and I can see you did not destroy that for him… maybe, just maybe, I will forgive you. But if I do, it will be forgiveness for myself, not a gift I extend to you.

Goodbye,
A Real Parent

PS: And no, David, I did not change your name to protect your privacy. You don’t deserve it after what you did.

~~~

The writer of this letter has chosen not to include her name and bio. We respect privacy on Unsent Letters.

Dear Vivian,

Well, it’s been a while since we have had any contact. I know you thought you would never hear from me again. However, I feel you should know what has been nagging at me the last couple of years.

When I found out my husband had cheated on me, I was devastated. But now, a couple of years later, I realize his affair with you was probably the best thing that could have ever happened to our marriage.

The entire nine months we spent waiting to find out the results of the DNA test were nine months we spent repairing our broken relationship. He tried harder, I tried harder, and we realized our love was more dominant than anything else.

That is something you underestimated about marriage: love.

Yeah, he made a mistake with you. In hindsight, though, I don’t really think it was a mistake. I think the infidelity was meant to happen. My husband had to see for himself in the most extreme way that our marriage could be saved, that we are meant to be together, and that love conquers all.

Since then, we have been happier than we have been for a very long time. He feels he will never be able to properly pay for his sin, but I know he already has. For a time, watching him wallow in his own guilt made me feel better. It was perfect retribution for him.

I don’t blame you any more than I blame him. It takes two people to cheat and you were both at fault. You used him; you used him until you discovered he didn’t have the kind of money you thought he had. Then, you harassed me, when I did nothing to you. Still after all that, I am only grateful for the way things turned out.

The reason I am writing this to you is to tell you something what you probably need to hear: he cared about you. You made him laugh and smile when I could not.

So, I wanted to say thank you. Thank you so much for saving our marriage. I don’t think it would have survived without you.

Sincerely,
Jessica Waverly

PS: I’m truly happy that you found out quickly who your little girl’s father is.