JUDITH SHAKESPEARE:

July, 15th 1660

When I turned eight and my twin brother was still alive, my father asked me for a big favor. Today, from a distance, I remember it was from that moment on that I stopped eating. My mother tried her best by mixing flavors and colors like a puzzle on my plate to make me eat. But there was no way. I wasn’t hungry anymore. My appetite was gone. Better said, it was stolen away from me on my birthday by my father. Together with my appetite he took not only my drawings and my written pages, but also his love for me. 

I watched him copy my words on his pages, with his own ink and handwriting. In the beginning, I must confess, everything seemed nice. I felt proud, important. That is why, on my birthday, when he asked me not to sign my pages with my name, I agreed. I spent my entire life writing tales, poems, songs and dialogues signing with an X. Until my body gave up. I ran out of energy. And now that I feel the end so near, what hurts me the most is not the fact that people believe I am illiterate nor that William had used my words as his. What hurts me the most is that THAT man stole my father away.