You were a beautiful child. I don’t know what happened to them, but I had boxes and boxes of pictures of you when you were a baby. You weren’t even six pounds by the time we brought you home, but you were strong. You were a fighter.
I was so proud of you.
You gave me a reason to live, Justine. If it weren’t for you, I … well, you don’t need to hear that side of it.
For the first little bit after you came home from the hospital, your father and I got along. He seemed to have changed his mind about not wanting to be a dad. I think part of him just liked the attention he got because of you. But I think there was a part of him, however small, that loved you in his own way.
Your father had demons, Justine. I’m not sure I mean that in the literal sense of the word, but he didn’t necessarily
