At first I was angered, angered at the monster who had just killed my child. I thought: How, just how could she? Why did she? And what’s wrong with her? Now, as I sit here and think deeper, harder and longer, I begin to doubt these questions. I’ve known Katy for three years; she was a good mother when I was with her. Her lawyer insists that she is in a competent mental state; I beg to differ.
I was at the local pub. I had just had an argument with Katy and had stormed out of our house.
I was sitting at the bar, she bought me a drink and we started talking, chemistry I suppose. Then as the night went on, one thing lead to another and next thing you know it I’d had my first and only ever affair.
And now look at me; I’m sitting here in this god forsaken cell looking at a picture of my child. Pictures are all I have left now. I loved that child; he was the only thing that kept me and Katy together to be honest, she would always say “go ahead, leave, you don’t do anything around here anyway”. I didn’t do much to help out with him to be fair to her, Katy did most of the work, but I loved playing with him. Just making him laugh, there’s nothing better than making a baby giggle. He was the only thing that made me want to stay in the relationship.
The last fight was our worst ever. I was so angry, I wanted to kill her. I was absolutely outraged.
I kept seeing my other woman, I know it was wrong but it was exciting. We got on better than I did with Katy. No arguments, no nothing. It wasn’t just an affair anymore and the excitement had faded; we laughed together and enjoyed the same things. Come to think of it, I think it was love. I thought I had love with Katy, I now know that wasn’t love now, it was a huge mistake.
I spent many, many sleepless nights struggling with my dilemma. Two options: It was either stay with my beautiful baby boy, and live a life of secrecy while arguing with Katy. Or be with the love of my life.
I hate talking about it; I even hate thinking about it. The hardest thing I have ever had to do-and hopefully ever do, was leave a family. I remember it vividly. First I went into my son’s room, gently kissed him on the forehead held his hand tightly in mine, and whispered: “Goodbye.” By the time I had walked out of the door tears were rolling down my face. It was, and still is, utter agony.
I’m certainly not the first man to walk out on a child. As I said before, she was a good mother, a loving, caring mother. People ask me if I feel guilty about this whole disaster, I tell them yes, and truthfully I do, but the feeling that completely overwhelms the guilt is pure confusion. I was sure she could handle it. I wouldn’t have left otherwise. All of these points lead me into this state of confusion. But I still can’t get over the initial problem; how could she?