Dear Judy Moody,

I hope that you marry him because I really can’t think of a worse punishment than that.

I hope that you devote your life to having his unwanted children, cleaning up everyone’s messes, crying about never having enough to make ends meet. I hope that you get pregnant, and he doesn’t force you to get an abortion this time. I hope that you keep it and quit your job at the mall to stay home with it, while he picks up extra shifts at Max and Erma’s Casual Dining Restaurant, partially to pay the rent for your one-bedroom shithole apartment and partially because he dreads coming home to his bloated, bitchy, accusing wife. I hope that when he stays out for a shift beer with the new, blonde 18-year-old cocktail waitresses, you’re at home losing your mind, like always.

I hope that you know when you pick up the phone to call me and tell me about how much it hurts, I’m going to press “ignore.” I’ll be at home, more money than I know what to do with, head full of meaningful conversations, heart full of love, and I’ll be giving all of that to anyone who isn’t you. I’m doing what I should’ve done when we were 17 and cutting you out, cutting you off, getting rid of all of my love for you, and pushing it off on anyone who will take it because chances are, they’re more deserving.

So there it is, that’s my plan. That’s why I haven’t screamed at you or thrown your things out on the lawn. I’m just waiting for you to do the damage yourself. Because god knows, you’ll make yourself more miserable than anything I could do to you ever would. I’m setting you free to fuck yourself over and wallow in your unhappiness. And knowing that you’re going to turn into your mother—a bitter, sad, withered woman—makes me happier than putting your head on a spike ever could. 

Love, 

T.N.