His mind is broken. I know this, but it doesn’t mitigate the pain of what he did to us–his adopted family and especially the young children whose innocence he violated.
I told people about this and they had the uniformly shocked look of a colonoscopy patient.
Especially when I articulated my anger.
I put it this way–
I want to take him to a biker bar and tell them what he did then let then deal with him.
As though I had been to a biker bar…
As though this were a real thing I could do….
As though it would help…
Our relationship has been winnowed down to rare, monosyllabic emails.
Are you ok?
I am ok.
We do not trust each other.
So I do not tell him what I would tell you–
the hurt goes on in the lives of his victims. They grieve. We all grieve. And there is a terrible loneliness as well.
I understand that while the bikers are imaginary, a way for me to substantiate the demand for justice, justice itself demands an accounting.
Leaving me the free time to mourn. To grieve for what has been lost and a future in this most uncertain world.