Page 3 of All for her Forgiveness

What do they expect from me? If I lie and tell the story they seem to want to hear, will they leave me alone? Because I feel so drained that I'm about to do just that, just to be left in peace.

I just want to be able to leave and go back to them, even though I know there's a good chance that won't happen unless I can prove my innocence.

Despite being physically and mentally exhausted, a little voice inside me begs me not to give up. Even if I don't remember anything about the past, about what happened before I ran away from that house on the night that turned into my worst nightmare, how can I admit to something they say I did when just the idea of hurting someone fills me with absolute horror?

I wanted to do right so that someday my son could be proud of me, but now I'm not sure if deciding to finally turn myself in was the right choice. I could have been killed, and then King would grow up without either of his parents by his side.

After spending my entire pregnancy on the run, when my baby was a month old, I decided it was time to confront my past once and for all, but then, before I even got to the police station, I was hit by a car, and I’ve spent the last twenty-four months in a coma.

Even though I woke up from my death-like sleep two months ago, I remember nothing from before Ernest helped me escape from Cape Cod almost three years ago to avoid being arrested on the night of that woman’s murder.

I don't even know how Ernest found me. When I escaped from the house in Cape Cod, I was injured, bloody, and my clothes were torn. I didn't know who I was or what had happened there. I left the house out of survival instinct, afraid that whoever had hurt the woman would come back to do the same to me.

I had barely stepped onto the street when the man who introduced himself as Ernest approached me.

I asked who he was, and his answer was:your friend and protector.

It didn't take long to realize I had lost my memory, and he promised that no one would hurt me.

When I asked him how he’d found me, he said he had always kept an eye on me because he didn't fully trust the new family I had moved in with in New York.

There were so many conflicting pieces of information and almost no answers, so I told him that nothing he said brought back any memories.

He took me to a safe place, hid me. I learned from Ernest that the police were after me, considering me an accomplice in the murder of the young woman, Pam Marcotte.

We lived in a cabin surrounded by woods, and about three months into our stay, I started experiencing the first symptoms of pregnancy. Ernest bought a test from the pharmacy, and soon we had confirmation.

Finding out I was pregnant, without any idea who the father was, was the second scariest thing that had occurred in my life, superseded only by waking up covered in blood in that Cape Cod house.

I spent the rest of my pregnancy in hiding.

A doctor came to examine me once a month. He didn't ask questions, and when it was time to give birth, a helicopter picked us up and took us to a clinic that looked more like a fortress.

They registered me under a false name, but at that moment, I wasn't concerned about what they called me; I just wanted my child to be safe.

Three days after King was born, we returned to the cabin.

He and Ernest were all I had left in the dark abyss of amnesia I had plunged into.

And then, when my baby was a month old, I realized I could no longer hide. I needed to prove my innocence, not just for my son to be proud of me but also to prevent him from having to hide forever and miss out on having a normal life.

However, my plans were shattered when a car hit me, almost killing me and throwing me into a deep coma for two years.

The strangest thing of all is that I remember my entire pregnancy, the conversations with Ernest during the months we spent together, and King's birth. But absolutely nothing about the time before that dark night.

When Ernest came to see me about a week ago, he told me that the police claimed my accident was just that—an accident, a misfortune.

Now, in the prison hospital, I've been interrogated relentlessly by this man almost every day since I woke up.

He introduced himself as a psychiatrist, and I found out from one of the inmates, Delores, who had the chance to work at the hospital for good behavior, that he is globally renowned.

"I've already told you what I remember. I woke up in a house I didn't recognize. What I assume were my clothes, because I don't remember them either, were torn. My body had dried bloodstains on it, and when I looked in the bathroom mirror, there was blood on my face too. My lower lip looked cut, like . . .”

"Like what?"

"It looked like someone had slapped or punched me."

"And how do you know that?"

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