Agnie,
Were this a trial, I would have to plead. In some ways, every encounter is a trial. Judgment comes with every word we speak. Oh, we try not to judge one another. We try to be open-minded, but that verdict (or sentence depending on how deep you wish to take the metaphor) often is levied as mercy or sentiment in the end. One who does not judge another is generally lying to himself. This is not necessarily a bad thing or a good thing. It is merely human. It is normal. It is our way of categorizing and understanding one another. In general, so long as we do it with open eyes, it's fine.
So, how can I not plead? I cannot plead ignorance. Or, let us say that I cannot plead ignorance of the second-degree. I know things have not gone well. I know that life has not improved since we last spoke. I know you have it hard. I know there has been death and ostracization and hardship. You've faced this with some help from your family, I'm sure, but less than might have been expected ten years ago.
I've reached out to your sister. Why, you might ask? Part of that is because I put her into danger, to a degree. I gave her an opportunity out of regard for your family and because she showed a spark. I let her decide what to do with it. It put her in the path of Rhaena, though, I imagine she'd have been in that path already. I do not plead guilty for her, but I do plead responsible, and as such, I wanted to follow up and see if she was hale. She is not and she's stopped responding to my letters, even when I think I provided her something of an advantage to press. I think she had reason to fear what might be discovered.
For Rhaena, I plead guilty, though it is all of a second-degree as well. You know my intentions. You have leave to damn them at will.
Why have I not reached out to you, then? Because Agnie, so much as I love you, I am not responsible for you. I have more of a hand in Genevieve, for instance, or, yes, your sister. I had to find resolve to do what I could for them even before I was ready to do much for myself. I was able to give Genny some truth and your sister far less than that.
What could I give you but pain? More pain for someone who has had more than her share.
I've reached a point where I think I might be able to offer you more and this is why I send this letter now, in this moment. I've needs too, though that's hardly something I'd admit to almost anyone but you. Maybe, here, at the end of long, painful, lost years, we can help one another.
Always yours exactly and only as I ever was,
Glenn