My Son Sent Me Birthday Chocolates—Then Screamed When I Said His Kids Ate Them.

In late August, a single white envelope arrived in my mailbox.

I recognized the red stamp on the front immediately: GEORGIA DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS – INMATE MAIL.

It was addressed to William A. Morrison in David's handwriting.

I took the letter out to my front porch and sat down in one of the two wooden rocking chairs. The afternoon sun was warm, rustling the leaves of the old oak tree in my front yard.

I opened the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of lined notebook paper.

Dad,

I am writing this from my cell at the Diagnostic Center. I know you probably won't read this, or maybe you'll throw it straight into the trash. You have every right to.

The warden told me last week that my final appeal was denied. I will spend the rest of my life in this place. I earn two dollars a day working in the prison library. It gives me a lot of time to think.

I look at the other men in here—men who destroyed their lives for quick money, drugs, or pride. I realized I became the worst of them. I had a father who loved me, a wife who adored me, and two beautiful children who looked up to me. And I threw it all into the gutter for a fake illusion of wealth.

I don't expect you to forgive me. I know I lost the right to be called your son the day I sent those chocolates. But I need you to know one thing: I am glad you were strong enough to stop me. If you hadn't stood up to me at that cabin, I would have killed someone, or killed myself.

Thank you for saving my children from me. Please tell Emma and Max someday that their father was a foolish man who lost his way, but that their grandfather is the greatest man who ever lived.

David

I read the letter twice.

I didn't cry. I didn't feel anger. I felt a quiet, solemn sense of tragic completion. David was finally experiencing the accountability he had spent thirty-two years running from.