I LOVE my kid. I mean, like a pit bull mom on steroids, I ferociously, unconditionally adore my child, I love her to Jupiter’s largest moon and back again, forever and always with every single cell in my body and even the mitochondria, the powerhouse of the cell, a piece of information I thought I’d never use, loves my kid; my spawn is my dawn, my sunset, my fuel, my breath, my raison d’être…
…and I want to kill her with my bare hands.
And you know what? I don’t think I would be convicted, certainly not by a jury of my peers. I would defend myself, knowing full well the truth of the old adage that the woman who defends herself has a fool for a client, but I would be so confident in my acquittal, that all I would need to do is open with these words:
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. She was fifteen.“