Left for Garbage

adored her child and was an extremely loving mother who met Deeley’s basic needs as well as her emotional ones.
    But, he cautioned us sternly, as though we had said a word, which given how stunned we were would have been impossible, but, he said, raising a finger, the jury will be made to understand that, despite her great love and care for her baby, Denise had lost some basic parenting skills, such as understanding what constituted danger to a small child in certain situations that would be obvious to, say, someone who had been given any sort of normal life herself. How could poor Denise, whose sole knowledge of parenting existed of being either sexually abused or emotionally terrorized, know what that was? Her family life had eroded this knowledge from her, and that while he was willing to acknowledge to the jury that it was in fact poor damaged Denise who had left the sliding glass doors open, which resulted in the horrible accident of Deeley’s drowning in the pool, it was really us who had killed her, collectively it seemed, and we must all accept our part and our blame in this tragedy.
    I don’t know what Margaret was thinking; she looked as though she had been turned to stone. As for me, despite my newly-formed belief in myself, I just wished that I had died before having to hear this, and I know I will feel that way again and again because Salvatore made it very clear that this is what would be said in court for all the world to hear
    For me , this was the end for Denise and me. My daughter is dead. Denise is a killer. She killed my granddaughter and now she is going to try and finish off the rest of us. God Bless Deeley, and God Bless the memory of the little girl who used to be Denise, because I forever lost my daughter that day as surely as I have lost Deeley.

Margaret Brown
    (Mother of Denise Brown)

    Please , baby, can’t you see my minds burnin’ in hell.
    I’m the only one who’ll walk across the fire for you.

    ‘ I’m Not the Only One’, by Melissa Etheridge

    So, it’s been told now. I knew it would come. Despite what people think, despite what even I try to ignore and often succeed in not seeing, I do know my daughter.
    Salvatore Gutierrez summoned Keith and me to his office and sat us down and told us the score, music and lyrics included. Denise has shared a story with him. I’ll tell you the story and then I’ll tell you my story, and I’ll tell you Keith’s story, and then you can decide to judge.
    I used to have the luxury of judgment too but it’s ashes now. There’s not much left. Should I let what remains go? I don’t know … I don’t know. I always know … and now I don’t know.
    Our daughter wants to live, and for her to live, or so Salvatore informed us, my husband must be branded a child rapist to the world. I didn’t have much time to swallow that down , because to free my daughter, or so Salvatore informs me, my son must also be named as a boy who desires his sister, who likes to touch her. Seel learned these desires, according to Denise, during the years that he watched enviously as Denise sucked her father’s cock - my husband’s cock. No way to pretty this one up.
    Salvatore says the world despises my child. He says I created her, that the woman she is - the killer, the murderer, the sociopath, the monster that the world calls her - is the daughter I have brought forth and we all must own our sins; in this creation we must all atone.
    Denise cannot stand alone, she cannot rise from the pit of filth she comes from unaided. Someone must reach down into the pit and pull her free. Only the truth can set my daughter free , says Mr. Gutierrez, and he says it with a straight face.
    My husband, a man I have despised for his weakness too many times to count, has chosen this occasion to become a man of strength and claims this is a mile too far for the child he no longer wishes t o acknowledge. I nearly laughed - a mile too far?
    There is more. My granddaughter was never kidnapped. S he died on the sixteenth of June, 2008, and was never missing at all. There was no Manny … and I have accused a lot of people of a non-existent crime, apparently. Mr. Gutierrez reminds me of this, probably to make sure I don’t miss his earlier points about how Denise turned out so … well … like-mother-like-daughter. She had Manny, I have Bobby and Emily, who though real, are no more responsible than Denise’s imaginary male nanny.
    Salvatore has announced that Deeley drowned in