With the burying of my second marriage, I have these things to say to the embodiment of the Dusty Springfield song, Son Of A Preacher Man:

I want the best for you. I always have! You are young gifted and Black…and all that you desire, I hope that you get. Know that I tried to love you as best as I could. I can admit that I wasted your time on some level. The woman you needed me to be, I couldn’t become.

I want you to know that God saw how bad you did me, my children and my family. He saw. I hope you deal with that. I hope that the ‘hard man’ your mother said you were becomes softer, and more willing to listen, learn and forgive.

I tried to love you as best as I can…and it’s okay that you don’t believe me. No opinion of me coming from you matters. I want you to know that I never should have married you…never. You weren’t ready, and neither was I. We tried to make something work, that only wound up burning down.

I tried to stay with you, tried to understand you and bend to what you wanted. But, I am now, was not, will never be, what you wanted. I have accepted that.

For that, I am sorry. I hope one day you can forgive me. Yet, if I remain the villain in your story? I’m quite okay with that. I will remain the Devil that wears Prada.