I wasn’t asked to speak at my fathers funeral. I wasn’t even bothered for a statement when he passed. He and his little henchmen knew that if given the chance, I would roast that nut. Still, what does one say when the peanut who sent millions of his own kind to be slaughtered for a human snack, is gone? He lived a long time, longer than any of us expected or wanted. My father, Mr. Peanut was a terror to so many, but today I stand before you and announce his first murder, his own wife, and my mother.

Growing up, he was a hard legume to love. He showed no emotion, said very little, and was constantly traveling for work. My mother died when I was barely a seedling from what the doctors claimed was a rare form of Leaf Rot. I remember sitting by her bed for the two horrible months she suffered. For a majority of my maturation, she was in near perfect health until one day in late September, as the leaves began to change beneath a great oak in our front yard, my mother whispered to me, “your father is not as he appears to be.”

By December, my mother was dead. There was no autopsy and I was not allowed to speak at my own mother’s funeral. In her final days, she could barely speak, but had asked me, her only child, to read Emily Dickinson’s “Because I could not stop for Death” at her funeral. My father allowed no such thing to take place. At the time, I was angry but assumed my father loved Emily Dickinson too much to have her remind him of his beautiful wife’s death.

The funeral was instead short and the only flowers present were lilies. I soon realized this was a sick joke when my father announced only six months after my mother’s death that he would be marrying his human assistant of four years. Her name? Lilly.

When my sweet mother built the Planters Industry from the ground up with my father, she had no idea it would become such a horrible corporation that destroyed families and ended lives with such magnitude and horror. Around the time she fell ill, she began suggesting to my father that they should end the business. She explained that she could no longer be a part of the mass killings that the company did to create their product. My mother wasn’t perfect, but she tried to get out. She died clinging to The Communist Manifesto. She didn’t even use her last breath to say she loved me, she used it to shout, “The bourgeoisie cannot exist without constantly revolutionizing the instruments of production.” It seemed like a weird sentence to choose since it’s not even the full thought, but it showed her dedication to change.

I believe that my mother realized the sins of her past and if she were still alive today, she would be devoting her life to making the world a better place. I also believe that as soon as my father realized the detriment that my mother leaving would cause to the Planters’ brand, he knew he had to get rid of her.

I had my suspicions growing up, but it wasn’t until my 50th birthday when my childhood nanny passed away and her son sent me a letter. In this letter was a full confession that she had helped my father poison my mother in an effort to prevent her from leaving. Finally, my greatest fear was a reality.

Still, I kept my mouth shut. I was terrified that if I share my father’s dirty secret, he would kill me just like my mother. I have my own children, a husband, and comfortable luxury vacation planning business now. I was too afraid to lose all of that. I know now that you should never be afraid to speak truth to power, but it feels safer now that he’s gone.

Now that you all know the horrible truth, I have only one request. Help me destroy my father’s legacy. Not only did he murder millions of your friends and family to make a mediocre salty snack, but he was willing to sacrifice the one woman who loved him before all the fame and money. And I think that’s almost worse because I didn’t personally know any of the poor people he killed. I hope you will join me in never touching another can of Planters ever again. This should be pretty easy because you have all been boycotting eating your friends and family since Planters began. I also ask that you join me in storming, looting, and eventually burning down any property owned by members of the Planters family. Avoid my house, it is but a measly six-bedroom ranch style in a Texas suburb, but everything else is fair game.

I want to conclude by thanking everyone for your time. I know this wasn’t easy to hear that a man feared by many, was also feared by his own daughter. Please, help me right the wrongs my father committed. Now that he’s dead, the work has only just begun. And most importantly, let us all avenge my mother.