Crime & (Belated) Punishment

It’s been a while. In part, I got very cranky that a whole lot of my writing somehow disappeared, and that really un-motivated me to keep going. The other reason does not exist anymore, and suffice it to say that I’ve unburdened myself of a situation that drained me of my creative spirit, and had me in something resembling survival mode for a long time. Just a little reminder that not everything you see on social media is real. I’ve done an excellent job at pretending my life was great, when it was, in fact, not. Getting past this has me slowly getting back to myself, and back in action. This might also be a good time to remind you that I swear like a Sailor, so if you don’t like profanity, this is the time to exit stage left.

I’ll start with what’s going on right now. You may (or may not) remember several years ago, that my father murdered my mother. If you would like to refresh your memory, it can be found here:

Blog Archives - How the Fork Did I Get Here?

There have been quite a number of kicks in the pants regarding this whole ordeal. The fact that, despite the Slayer Law (which the long and short of is that some Dickhole who kills his wife isn’t supposed to profit from her death), the probate judge was concerned as to how Mr. Maples would be able to pay his lawyers if he didn’t get to have half of the income from the sale of their shit-hole, hoarders house that my sister and I had to go clean out and sell, and then granted him half of the money from the sale. I’m sorry, did I miss something? Number One, the Slayer Law fucking spells out that this is the exact kind of thing that is not supposed to happen, and Number Two, that’s what Public Defenders are for. Number Three, it shouldn’t be that fucking judge’s concern AT ALL about said Dickhole having the attorney he wants.

Another seemingly constant setback was how many times the goddamn times the trial got delayed. Our luck was that of a bald guy winning a comb. It was supposed to be held in October of 2024. Then March of 2025. Then, because Dickhole decided he wanted to change his plea at the last minute, it got postponed to October of 2025. And then to April of 2026. You get the drift. This was largely due to him dragging his Dickhole feet, trying to find a “sleep expert,” to testify that HE WAS FUCKING SLEEPING WHEN HE SHOT HER, POINT BLANK, 5 FUCKING TIMES. It seems he struggled in finding some asshole who would be willing to go on the stand and say something to that effect. Weird, huh?

A little side tangent: when we did finally go to trial in August of this year, he did have some asshole psychologist dude testify to something like that. He quoted some sleep book he had read and said yeah, it might have been a possibility that he slept through it all.

The bright and shining moment of the trial (for me, anyway), when the actual sleep expert for the Prosecution got on the stand, and said (and I’m paraphrasing here), “Yeah, you know the book that Psychologist Asshole quoted? I wrote that fucking book, and that testimony isn’t going to fly, and now I will tell you all the reasons why Dickhole was definitely NOT asleep when he did this Very Naughty Thing.” It was HOT. I don’t care how old that Doctor was, or the fact that I just had a hysterectomy (that’s another fun story for later), I would have his damn babies.

So yes, in August of 2026, we finally went to trial, and got the second-best outcome we could’ve hoped for: Guilty, Second-Degree.

That just leaves the sentencing hearing, which will be happening first thing tomorrow morning. The sentence for second-degree murder starts at 16 years and goes up from there. The general consensus is that we don’t want him to get life. With a life sentence in Michigan, prisoners are eligible for parole at 15 years (minus almost 4 years cooling our heels waiting for the trial). Because he’s a Dickhole, and they live forever, 11 years just isn’t enough for me and my sister. He’s such a miserable prick, that he wouldn’t bat an eyelash or think twice about coming after either of us if he were to get out. So I’m thinking a nice jolly 20+ would be sufficient for me to rest easy.

I will not be able to join my sister in person (see the above mention of the recent hysterectomy), so I will be Zooming in to participate. The only thing left to do before I can wash my hands of this odious man forever, is the Impact Statement.

I’m going to explain a tiny piece of it, because there’s a little paragraph in there that doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of it, but it’s for a very deliberate reason. Dickhole, being the narcissist that he is, couldn’t resist the siren’s call of a performance on the stand, so he got up there and perjured himself for an hour and a half or so. One of the first things he did was to try and discredit my sister, who had already been on the stand, since she had seen both of them only a few days prior when they came down for a visit (and also had several text exchanges with him not half an hour before he did the Very Naughty Thing). My sister and her husband practice ethical non-monogamy. This is their lifestyle choice, and as far as I’m concerned, to each their own. Whatever tickles your fancy. IDGAF. Dickhole, on the other hand, could not WAIT to try and bring that up as his one and only way to try and take her down a peg. He was so horny for it, you could damn near see his tail wagging. He had a very precise way of bringing it up, and since the PA had an objection to it, he got to say it twice. The way he said it, I knew that he’d been rehearsing this. It went to the effect of, “There were issues because of her polyandry (not even the right word, Dickhole). Unless you’ve studied Greek, you might not know the term polyandry, but you’ll certainly recognize the term adultery.” On an aside, this did NOT have the effect he wanted - the jury could have cared less what arrangement she and her husband have, and he just highlighted the judgmental p.o.s. that he is.

While writing my Impact Statement, I could not resist the urge to throw that back at him. It’s subtle enough that unless someone had REALLY been paying attention to his testimony, they wouldn’t have a clue what's going on, but since he had very clearly had rehearsed that bit, he’ll pick up on it. I just can’t resist the urge to twist the knife a little before sending him to the tar pits.  I’m petty like that.

So, in the last thing I’ll ever say to him, a letter to my father:

When I was a little girl, I wished for a father who loved us. Who cherished us. A father I could admire, and look up to. I would have settled for a father who at least treated us with a modicum of dignity or respect. I wished for just about anything that wasn't you. You were cruel for sport. You treated us as property; good only to do your bidding and live under your thumb, with the constant threat of your uncontrolled rage looming.
 
I don't go around advertising what my sister and I went through at your hands, but when people get even little glimpses into my childhood, they are generally appalled. They are horrified that a father could and would treat his daughters the way you treated us. And that's from hearing one story, maybe two; not a lifetime of it. You were an abhorrent father. As children, you abused both of us. Not only physically, but no 7-year-old should be body-shamed for being chubby, nor should a 12-year-old be sexualized. No child should fear their father more than the devil himself.
 
I can’t speak for my sister on this part, but as an adult you continued to threaten me. More than once.
You threatened my Naval career, and you threatened my safety. Do you know how embarrassing it was to have to bring my chain-of-command into my personal life and compile a legal write-up for my permanent record because of the email you sent me threatening to make up a story compromising my security clearance? I’m sure you do. Or maybe you imagined I would just cower in silence and fear, and do what you’d asked, no, demanded I do, in that email, to sooth your ruffled ego.
In a separate email, the one that was the nail in the coffin for any interaction I was willing to have with either you or Cathy, your own words to me: "You’re likely to be dead in a gutter by age 48. If not, I’d be willing to intervene and make that happen." It was at this point in time when I decided I will NEVER allow ANYONE to treat me in such a fashion. It was then that I realized I may not have had a choice when I was younger, but I certainly do as an adult.
 
Through grit and determination, I've turned out to be a decent and successful human, not because of you, but in spite of you. You were the epitome of what-not-to-do. I won’t pretend that Cathy was a good parent either, or a person I wanted to have any affiliation with. I will never understand why she stayed with you, or why she didn’t protect us kids, but she certainly didn’t deserve the ending she got. You just couldn’t STAND the thought that she might finally have had the backbone to actually go through with leaving you, could you? There is an irony in your brainwashing her, during your entire marriage, to believe that SHE was the controlling shrew. Everything, EVERY interaction I have ever had with you, was about YOUR need to control. To dominate. To be superior.
 
I look at the kind of parent my sister is, and I am SO incredibly proud of her. She's the kind of parent I wish I'd had. Her children know they are valued, that her love is given freely and need not be earned, and she would go to the ends of the earth for them. She can be disappointed by them and still not raise a hand to them, or lock them in a basement, or choke them by their neck against a wall, or throw them so hard against the corner of a dishwasher that they have scars for years, or pull them down flights of stairs by their hair, or, you know, PULL A GUN ON THEM. You could probably stop pretending now that February of 2023 was the first time you’ve pulled a gun on a member of your family. She listens to them, listens to their needs, and treats them with basic respect as human beings. While her family might not mirror a Norman Rockwell painting, her children, at the very least, don't have to live out their worst nightmare, which is certainly a step up from what we got.
 
I may always feel a touch of hiraeth when I see a functional family. Unless you’ve studied Welsh, you might not know the term hiraeth, but you’ll certainly recognize a bittersweet longing or homesickness for something that never existed.
 
I rest a little better now, knowing that you have finally, FINALLY been held accountable for at least one of your actions.

When I was young, I wished for a father who loved us. Today, I wish for a sentence that will ensure your incarceration for the rest of your life, without the possibility of parole. You don’t deserve to walk a free step ever again.

You have always been a danger to me, my loved ones, and society in general.

I hope you live out your remaining days behind bars, knowing that I've become the kind of woman you would despise.... strong, brave, outspoken, and unwilling to put up with poor treatment by weak, insolent men.