A Mother's Confession

by Kelly Rimmer

warning signs… specifically, warning signs that I somehow missed. I get it, I really do. If there were warning signs and I missed them, that makes this my fault. It’s a lot easier to blame me than it is to blame a dead man. If there were warning signs, that means that this whole situation was entirely preventable – and that means people can stop it happening to them. All they have to do is be a little more vigilant than I was – poor, foolish Olivia… so blind to what was happening right there in her own husband’s mind. I want to talk about it, but I don’t want to talk about bloody ‘warning signs’. I just want to say his name. I want to scream it in anger, and I want to wail it in grief. Mostly, I just want to hear myself say the words aloud – without feeling like I’m making whoever is in the room with me unbearably uncomfortable.

Cvbb

both feet; well before checking that it was safe to do so. I wanted to live a fairy tale, and I told myself that’s what I was doing, even long after it became apparent there would be no happy ending. Even now, when I think of him, I’m scared. He’s dead and I’m safe, but I’m still scared. Perhaps the strangest thing about all of this is that there’s no denying that I loved him too, at least at one point. Sometimes I actually miss him, but then in the very next breath I find that I hate him so much that I hope there is a hell, just so