But I didn’t care what the lawyer suggested. I wanted to go to prison. I didn’t want to go back out in the world where I would have to look at cars again, or gravel roads, or hear Coldplay on the radio, or think about all the things I’d have to do without you.
Looking back on it now, I realize I was in a deep and dangerous state of depression, but I don’t think anyone noticed, or maybe there was just no one who cared. Everyone was #TeamScotty, like we were never even on the same team. Everyone wanted justice, and sadly, justice and empathy couldn’t both fit inside that courtroom.
But what’s funny is I was on their side. I wanted justice for them. I empathized with them. With your mother, with your father, with all the people in your life who were packed inside that courtroom.
I pleaded guilty, to my lawyer’s dismay. I had to. When they started talking about what you went through after I ran away from you that night, I knew I would rather die than sit through a trial and listen to the details. It was all too gruesome, like I was living some horror story, and not my own life.
I’m sorry, Scotty.
I tuned it all out somehow by just repeating that phrase over and over in my head. I’m sorry, Scotty. I’m sorry, Scotty. I’m sorry, Scotty.
They scheduled another court date for sentencing, and it was sometime between those two court dates that I realized I hadn’t had my period in a while. I thought my cycle was messed up, so I didn’t mention it to anyone. Had I known I was growing a part of you inside me sooner, I’m positive I would have found the will to go to trial and fight for myself. Fight for our daughter.
When the sentencing date came, I tried not to listen as your mother read her victim impact statement, but every word she spoke is still engraved in my bones.
I kept thinking about what you told me as you were carrying me up the stairs on your back that night in her house—about how they wanted more kids, but you were their miracle baby.
That’s all I could think of in that moment. I had killed their miracle baby, and now they had no one, and it was all my fault.
I had planned to give an allocution statement, but I was too weak and too broken, so when it came time for me to stand up and speak, I couldn’t. Physically, emotionally, mentally. I was stuck in that chair, but I tried to stand. My lawyer grabbed my arm to make sure I didn’t collapse, and then I think he might have read something out loud for me, I don’t know. I’m still not clear on what happened in the courtroom that day, because that day was so much like that night. A nightmare that I was somehow watching play out from a distance.
I had tunnel vision. I knew there were people around me, and I knew the judge was speaking, but my brain was so exhausted, I couldn’t process what anyone was saying. Even when the judge read my sentence, I had no reaction, because I couldn’t absorb it. It wasn’t until later, after I was given an IV for dehydration, that I found out I had been sentenced to seven years in prison, with the eligibility for parole even sooner than that.
“Seven years,” I remember thinking. “That’s bullshit. That isn’t nearly long enough.”
I try not to think about what it must have been like for you in that car after I left you there. What must you have thought of me? Did you think I had been thrown from the car? Were you looking for me? Or did you know I had left you there all alone?
It’s the time you spent alone that night that I know haunts us all, because we’ll never know what you went through. What you were thinking. Who you were calling out to. What your final minutes were like.
I can’t imagine a more painful way for your mother and father to be forced to live out the rest of their lives.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s why Diem is here. Maybe Diem was your way of making sure your parents would be okay.
But in that same vein, not having Diem in my life would mean it’s your way of punishing me. It’s okay. I deserve it.
I plan to fight it, but I know I deserve it.
Every morning, I wake up and I silently apologize. To you, to your parents, to Diem. Throughout the day, I silently thank your parents for raising our daughter since we can’t. And every night, I apologize again before I fall asleep.
I’m sorry. Thank you. I’m sorry.
That’s my day, every day, on repeat.