A Letter from the Bottom of Her Heart

After almost a half-century, I finally convinced my mother to sell the family home and move into assisted living. That my mother was ninety-five, while my first born was dead was a cruel irony that has haunted me for decades. When she was finally settled into her new home, I had to face the thankless chore of emptying the contents of her house so it could be put up for sale.

When I pulled the junk drawer out from under the cabinet, an envelope fluttered to the floor. I placed the drawer onto of the cabinet and bent down to pick it up. The legal-size envelope was addressed to me, at my old address from forty years ago. I wondered why it was here in my mother’s house. Reluctantly, I opened the yellowed flap and pulled out the single white page. I immediately recognized the handwriting.

Had my mother intercepted the letter?  Had Grace asked her to mail it for her? Had she read contents? I put those questions aside and began to read:

                                                                                   May 31, 1984

Husband,

Almost started my letter “My Love” but do not love you anymore—cannot love you anymore—not after what has happened.

Before my letter gets to you, the cops may have already contacted you about baby Susan’s death and how she drowned. How her body was found on the large green ottoman under her Pokémon blanket.

Although the facts are unknown, the truths are clear. Blame me for the murder of a defenseless twenty-two-month-old baby.

Why? You wonder

Can’t say, but there are reasons, vague and well-known that led me on, let me here. She hadn’t been naughty, as when she broke the crystal vase my mother gave us when we wed. Or when she dumped grape jelly on the carpet. The blotch left shows as an eyesore. Or when she peed her pants on the seat of our new car. Those acts hardly ever bothered me. We never even spanked her (just not done now a days).

Today was just as any other day after you left for work. Showered, got dressed, not just dressed, dressed up, because forgot, even after two years, not to prepare for work, but to be a stay-at-home mom. Changed back to blue jeans and tank top.

Susan waddled from hallway to our breakfast nook. After breakfast, placed on the sofa to watch game shows, as all my energy went to scrub, wash, clean, and vacuum. Every now and then an ad from my past, one created by me, would play over the TV. However, most of the adverts now are new—real junk that never would have been allowed on my watch.

Anyway, by two o’clock, Susan was restless, so we went to the park. She had her Care Bear and Cabbage Patch dolls to amuse her. We stayed at the park for about an hour. Moms talked about the latest fads and thumbed through a copy of Redbook as Susan and Sean scooped sand from sandbox and played patty cake. My old L’eggs ad was on page twenty-seven.

All of a sudden, three-year-old Sean pushed Susan from the sandbox to a nearby mud puddle. Sean’s mom screamed, “Sean you behave, or you’ll get spanked.”

“No don’t, Susan gets messy every day,” was my response. We soon left for home.

A bath was followed by a shower to get her mud-caked curls clean. After her bath she watched Bugs Bunny cartoons and Jell-O ads. Then came my own bubble bath soak, to calm my nerves.

“Go potty,” she entered the bathroom.

“Come here, my sweetheart.”

Total trust shone from her face as she approached me. My pull and then push under water was gentle; no struggle from her. After a spell—an hour or two—Susan was scooped out of the tub, wrapped up, replaced on the sofa. TV turned off.

Cops know the rest and have told you what they found by now. You may ask me, “Any regrets or sorrow, or remorse?” What a senseless query, as was never a matter of foul play. Only the necessary act. A mother’s love.

Look at the world on the news, murders, rapes, outrages of all sorts and our Susan up to heaven—a better result than our mortal world. Now fear does not lurk around corners. All threats to our daughter are gone. My act was not lawless, but provoked by pure love, care, concern. The future offers no comfort or assurance of days, months, or years to come. Only fear and tremors that push out joy.

What a person feels from a monstrous act should be regret, but all scruples evaporate, doubts are gone. You should have qualms about what you have done, but you don’t. The act becomes part of the day, as normal as any other act on any other day. You relax. What has hovered over you, now gone—a solace of sorts.

Once you get my letter, no trace of me anymore. Gone. “But where?” you ask. Nowhere around, not any place you would know. No place you would ever move. You and Susan forgotten by me. Memory? Just an unaffordable luxury to my presence. No searches, nor a trace of me. You and the cops won’t get to me.

Travels take many forms—not by plane, or car, or boat, nor tracks or lakes. The easy way out, far beyond you, far beyond our dead daughter was my only escape. Severance from a world of constant sorrow and dread to a better place. Off to a place perhaps where our daughter now stays, but probably not, she above and me below. Now, you are here alone unable to understand the why or the how.

Can a murderess be a mother, a partner, a daughter, a whole person? Does one flaw demarcate me? Not a bad person, rather a confused one who had to choose what she felt was the best, but not for me, for her. Can you understand why? Can you absolve me of my act of ardor, understand the deed as love?

My dearest, husband, blame me as you must. Curse me out, demand my arrest. The most severe penalty does not end what occurred--only hatred from you--deserved and accepted. Please know my love for you does go on, an unshakable fact, regardless of your own conduct that wounded my very soul long before my act. You are allowed to transgress any number of ways, as men do, no penance handed out. Everyone cheats. Everyone makes up an alternate truth. These offenses occur and no consequence; they are actually accepted by our culture.

However, the release of those who suffer to an alternate way, free of mortal stress, demands a response of abuse. No matter the why or wherefore, one’s true goal as she longs for alternate ways to cope. Only one penalty allowed: a death for a death. One a release, one a consequence. Why release me when to suffer equals peace? Rather, condemn me to never be free from my act seems a more just response.

Goodbye my no longer, forever love. Farewell my used to be heart. Do not look for me. Once found, my mask removed, only regret endures.

From the bottom of my heart,

Grace