|panda-like calm through fiction|
I know you're upset. You probably have reason to be. But we need to talk about it. See, I found the peanut in my ham sandwich. It probably wouldn't have killed me, but I would have had to go to hospital, would have spent several days in excruciating pain.
I said I was sorry. I sent you those roses. And it's starting to affect the kids, our fighting. Which probably sounds hypocritical, coming from me, but whatever my faults as a man, a husband, and a father, I do care about our kids. I know you think I lied to you, and yes, at best I was evasive and misleading, but Frank got sick and the sitter called to say she had double-booked and couldn't make it, and it all just seemed to come together.
I'm a lousy thief. You've known that since you married me. But I refuse to go back to the bad old days, working with thugs we barely knew and could never trust, having to put up with whatever insane, psychopathic bullshit they brought with them (guns included). Besides, our children have small hands, and small hands can come in handy.
But our kids were never in any real danger. Crappy a thief as I am, planning was always my forte; I knew that place was safe. And, of course, the most dangerous part of a robbery is always the getaway, and you're the best wheelwoman I've ever worked with- they were safer than if we'd dropped them with a new sitter.
I know this note won't make up for lying to you, but I hope you at least understand I wasn't trying to be reckless. At the very least, I want you to try and take a deep breath, have a calm day, and stop trying to lightly poison me until we can talk about it.