Why was I made this way, wandering to and fro in a vale of darkness as well as tears? The deep hole at the center of my being gaped open, a ravenous maw. I couldn’t go back there, not again. The old voice—where did it come from?—whispered in my ear to put an end to all these struggles.

“Forget that I exist. Be free, Imlay. Let us both be free.”

All emotion beaten out of me, and nearly too numb to cry, I kissed each of Fanny’s fingertips and held her close. She’d thrived for those weeks without me in the North, and I knew she loved Marguerite almost as much as she did me. I was grateful she was too young to understand, or to ask why tears come as close to pleasure as to pain.

I do not know how to describe the certainty that everyone you love, in the order that you love them, will be better off without you.

What happens next, little bird, is not the end of my story but the start of yours.

On a cusp-of-winter afternoon, I rowed alone to Putney Bridge, and paid the halfpenny toll for foot passengers, thinking, as I turned the coin in my hand, that another day I might have laughed at having to pay for the privilege of killing myself. There was scarce anyone about, which was best for my purposes. Can you see me, walking back and forth on the bridge long enough to soak my wool skirts with rain, to make myself heavy, as if my depression were not weight enough? I wanted to sink fast, drown my endless suffering, arrive at some eternal place of rest. No more thinking or feeling, no railing against the unjust world or the injustices done to my own heart.

Without a prayer or even a good-bye to the awful world, I climbed the low wall and plunged into the waters under the timbers of Putney Bridge, eyes closed, mouth open, intending to swallow the roiling river to help it swallow me. I have never told another soul what followed, not even the boatman who saw me jump, and dragged me, barely conscious, out of the murky tide.

I woke to him pressing on my belly and slapping my face and, though weak, tried to bat his hand away, despite my violent choking on river water. I was gasping for air, my ribs heaving. He sat me up on a slatted seat and made me hang my head to let the river run out of me, then clapped my back with both hands and didn’t stop until my lungs were clear. I scarcely knew who I was or where, but the old man, with a degree of tenderness I still recall, circled a heavy blanket about my shoulders and, after a few minutes, without a word, placed a cup of gin between my shaking hands.