On Wednesday May 27th 1998, a son was born. 7lbs, 2oz. and a head full of hair. He didn't stop crying for four days. The doctors thought there might be something wrong with him. Test after test. So many needles. His feet were covered in them. But there was nothing wrong. Yet he kept crying. And then his sister, not even two years old, grabbed his hand. And the crying stopped. He stared into her eyes and it was love.
He doted on his sister. From that day forward; he followed her, trusted her, protected her. The day she died he was changed forever. He had no one to love or trust. Nothing I did could help. But I tried to make sure he wasn't alone.
And now he is.
I don't know how to protect him.
I feel so helpless sitting in a motel room so many miles away. It's snowing here. It's freezing and icy and we're trapped here until the snow melts. If the police catch up to us, we're sitting ducks. But I can't think about that because he's all alone.
Jason has never connected with me or loved me the way his sister did but he is my son and I will not stop until he is free. I just wish I knew how.
Nothing's changed. Nothing's new. I'm just helpless. Hopeless.
As always, dear readers,
Stay Safe
From the immeasurably macabre to the sinfully sweet, I am The Madame Writer of all things Wrong
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