Part of Dallas couldn’t believe it had taken him almost twenty-five years. Another part was angry that he’d tried to contact him even now.
With Cain’s words still echoing in his ears, he pulled out his pocketknife so that he could carefully slit open the top. For all he knew, the way his father had sealed the envelope was intended to give him hepatitis, if not something worse. Robert simply wasn’t someone who could be trusted. He was a consummate actor, could fool just about anyone—at least when he was sober. Even before the murders, he’d been embezzling from the financial planning company where he worked. He’d just been caught the week he’d opened fire, which is what had pushed him over the edge. Although he denied it afterward, Dallas firmly believed he’d planned to kill his family, take off and start over.
The letter inside was written on lined paper—it, too, in pencil.
Setting aside the envelope, Dallas spread what turned out to be one page on the desk at the side of the bed and ironed out the folds.
Dear Dallas,
I’ve thought about you so often over the years—every day, if you want the truth. You might scoff at this, but I feel as if I know you. I can remember holding you, feeding you, teaching you to walk and to throw a ball as if it was only yesterday. For me, time has stood still. But I understand that everything must’ve changed for you and you can’t possibly remember me, at least not in any favorable light. You were too small when I did what I did to be able to hang on to the man I was before that day.
Filled with disgust and too many other emotions to name, Dallas squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head. That day? What about everything he’d done before? But Dallas had already known this letter would be full of lies and, therefore, difficult to read.
With a heavy sigh, he steeled himself, opened his eyes and continued reading:
My actions must seem unfathomable to you, the actions of a crazy person. I wish I could claim that I was crazy. It’d be easier to forgive myself. But I’m not sure depression would qualify, even a depression as dark as the one that encompassed my mind in that moment. I’ve attended group therapy for years here in prison, and if it has taught me anything, it’s to take responsibility for my actions and try to apologize. But in this case, there’s no way an apology could ever be sufficient, and I know that.
Lip service. This was all bullshit. Dallas couldn’t help but clench his jaw. Robert wasn’t taking any responsibility for everything that led up to that day, was blaming it all on one act caused by depression, but only because depression had become such a buzzword, which made it a ready excuse. He’d never mentioned being depressed before—certainly at the time and not even in court. It was alcohol that brought out the worst in him, not depression, but anyone who would embezzle, especially when he was making a decent living as it was, had to be an asshole to begin with.
Still, I’m willing to talk to you about how it all came to pass—not as an excuse, only as an explanation—so that you will at least know what made me snap. The murder of your beautiful mother and sister is not something I like to dwell on. Since I can’t take any of it back, or fix it in any way, it just reopens a wound that will never heal. But if it might help you come to terms with the past, to understand how a father who really did love his family could do what I did, I’ll tell you everything—not that I pretend to truly understand it myself.
Dallas laughed without mirth. He was saying all the right things—exactly what his therapist must’ve told him.
Please let me know if you’d like to meet. You have never written me, or come to see me. Maybe you’re better off left as you are. But I’ve nearly served my time. I’ll be getting out soon and wanted to let you know that. I also wanted to offer to do whatever I can, little though it may be.
Love,
The man you once knew as “Daddy”
Dallas sat there, letting it all sink in, and didn’t realize he was weeping until a tear dropped off his chin. Frustrated that his father could still cause him pain—after so long—he swiped