To Hank - Note #2

The emptiness feels endless. When I lost our son and saw his still, lifeless body, I felt a sadness deeper than anything I’d ever known. I looked into his eyes and saw only a cold emptiness. When I needed you the most, you weren’t there. You were never there. Now, this emptiness eats me up inside, and more than ever, I just want peace—to be with our son.

Hank, when you tell me, “You’re not a burden,” I know you’re lying. Living with mental illness *is* a burden. Depression drags us all down, and the only way out sometimes seems like death for those who suffer. That’s why you’ll find me gone, with this note beside me. My hands are trembling as I write, knowing this is the end. But, in a way, I feel relieved to be joining our son—the child you left me to mourn alone. You never truly cared. You gamble our money away, you stay out late in the city, doing who knows what. I just needed someone to talk to, someone who would listen, but I see now I chose the wrong person to rely on. We were never meant to be partners.

I know this may be a lot for you to face, but it’s time for you to see the impact of your choices. The weight is now yours to carry.

In the kitchen drawer, I’ve left all the paperwork you’ll need to move forward. My will is there; I’ve asked to be cremated, just like my father and our son were. I don’t expect you to stay in the apartment, so do what you want with my belongings. You’ll have to face my mother and sisters—tell them the truth, or don’t; that choice is yours. Do what feels right to you.

I know you don’t like the cat, so if you’d rather not keep her, give her to Angela—she’ll take care of her. There’s also a box of mementos you can pass along to my mom.

As for my will, you’ll notice I didn’t leave you any money. It’s intentional; I’d rather my family use it wisely than see you gamble it away. You need to understand—you have a serious problem.

If you think I hate you, I don’t. It’s just that I can’t find the love to stay with you, or even the will to keep living. You might not understand my decision, especially in the long run. Why can’t I overcome this sadness? It’s relentless, this crushing guilt that fills my mind every hour of the day. I keep asking myself why I had to lose him, why death chose our son. I asked God why you weren’t there, why it felt like everyone I loved had abandoned me. I begged the Lord to be there for my son, and yet he’s gone.

I feel both fear and a strange relief about what comes next. I look forward to leaving behind the endless torment of his memory, yet I fear finding nothing on the other side. I worry that everything—those nine long months, the pain, the prayers—was all for nothing. I need answers, yet I’m afraid of what they might be.

If you feel you need to punish yourself for my decision, please don’t do it in a way that harms others. Don’t take your anger out on the innocent. Try not to drown yourself in bad choices. Don’t waste your savings in my name, or because of my death. You caused enough pain with gambling while I was alive; don’t let my passing be an excuse to throw everything away again.

But I suppose I’ll never know. So if you must give in, then at least gamble only with your own money—don’t waste what I worked for in the casinos. Consider it my final request, and then there’ll be no more.

I worked so hard, Hank. Now, looking back, it all feels empty. After Louis died, I felt that everything I did was for nothing—all the overtime, sleepless nights, and sacrifices for our family’s future. I can barely remember some of those days, lost to exhaustion and misery. And in the end, it came down to one moment: a child who never got to live, who never even saw my face. He came into this world as nothing, and it breaks me that he never had a chance.

In these final moments, I think of us, Hank—I think of everything that led me here. My hard work, my blind hope in our relationship, my pregnancy and all the hardship I endured, along with a few scattered moments of happiness. If I could do it all over, maybe I would. But right now, I can’t imagine a life more wasted than mine. If those years held any meaning, I can’t see it anymore. All I see now is misery, and a darkness that has taken over everything I held onto.

I’m sorry for what you’re about to face and what you’ll have to do. The effort you’ll put into handling my death may be more than you ever put into my life. Take the time to recognize your failures and to grow as a man. If you ever find yourself with another woman, treat her with respect—or do what you should have done with me and never marry again. Don’t waste another woman’s life. Don’t make promises of love you won’t keep, and don’t abandon her to chase your games.

I think I’m done now. I don’t have much left to say, and my mind is heavy, my hand aches. I don’t want to keep going; it feels pointless because, in the end, no one ever truly changes—not even you, Hank.

Enjoy your life, but don’t forget—you had a son, and you failed him. Remember the ways you fell short as a husband. Don’t throw away all your money on addiction and empty dreams of wealth. Remember my death and what it meant; don’t let it fade. I want it seared into your memory until the day you meet your own end.

Goodbye Hank.