Chapter 17 - CLARICE’S LETTERS
Clarice wrote to Cormac every birthday through counsel.
At six:
No.
Seven:
No.
Ten:
No.
At thirteen, Cormac asked to read one.
The earliest was terrible.
Grandma made mistakes because she loved you and wanted you to grow strong.
Cormac stopped.
“Trash.”
I agreed privately.
He read a later one.
Better.
I locked you inside the kennel because I believed fear and discomfort would make you easier to control.
Cormac looked at me.
“She finally said it.”
“Yes.”
Another line:
I blamed your mother for refusing me, and I punished you because I believed hurting you would pressure her faster.
Cormac’s eyes filled.
“Did it?”
“No.”
“It hurt you.”
“Yes.”
“Did you sign?”
“No.”
He smiled slightly.
“Good.”
Then:
Your father knew enough to stop me and did not. I used his fear of losing my approval.
Cormac stared at that sentence for a long time.
“Can Dad read this?”
“If you want.”
He did.
Stetson cried.
No confrontation.
No screaming.
He said:
“She’s right.”
May you like
Cormac nodded.
That response helped more than any defense could.
