There are parts of this I won’t defend.
And parts I can’t explain.
But there is no version of this letter where I pretend you weren’t in pain.
You were.
And some of that pain came from me.
There’s no poetry in that.
No metaphor to soften the edge.
I was unravelling.
You were trying to leave.
And I grabbed on—clumsy, desperate, loud—because I couldn’t face the silence that came after you.
It doesn’t excuse the messages.
The photos.
The flood of what-ifs and please-come-backs.
I crossed a line.
And I know what that cost you.
Even if the courts wrapped it in terms like “supervision,” “restraining,” “recovery”—the real sentence was the weight we both now carry.
This isn’t about rewriting what happened.
It’s about saying what I didn’t say when I should have:
I see it now.
I should’ve let you go with grace.
I should’ve listened when you said no.
I won’t ask for forgiveness.
That’s yours to keep or destroy.
But I will say this:
I’ve changed.
Not just for me.
But because what I did lives in me now.
It doesn’t disappear when the headlines fade.
I write this not to clear my name.
I write it because I wish I had never given you a reason to fear it.
Recommended Posts:
Dear Mum, You Never Asked Why I Screamed
Dear Me, Age 7
Dear Spector
Dear The Girl I Hurt
Dear The Man I Was Becoming