I want to tell them she's not a victim of domestic violence, that I would cut off my own hands before I hurt her—but I don't.
It's none of their business, and they wouldn't believe me anyway.
The visiting room is half-full when we enter.
Families scattered at tables, talking in low voices, trying to pretend this is normal.
Trying to pretend the fluorescent lights and the guards and the razor wire outside don't exist.
Children running between tables, laughing, not understanding where they are or why their daddy lives here.
I guide Vanna to an empty table near the window and pull out her chair.
She sits down heavily, like her legs don't want to hold her anymore.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," she murmurs, more to herself than to me.
"You don't have to. We can leave right now if you want. Say the word and we're gone."
"No. I need to." She reaches for my hand, squeezing tight. Her fingers are ice-cold despite the warmth of the room. "Just... don't leave me. Okay? Whatever happens, whatever he says—don't leave me."
"Never."
We wait. Five minutes. Ten.
My leg bounces under the table, impatient, anxious. I watch the door, waiting for?—
And then he's there.
Rick looks the same as he did two months ago.
Clear-eyed, healthy, older than his years but carrying it well.
He's wearing the standard prison uniform, his hands clasped in front of him, his expression carefully neutral.
The expression of a man who's learned not to hope for too much.
But when he sees Vanna, everything changes.
His face crumbles.
Just for a second, before he gets it back under control.
His eyes go wet, his jaw trembles, and I see something in his expression that I recognize.
The desperate, painful love of a parent who's been separated from their child.
The hope and fear all tangled together until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
He walks to the table slowly, like he's afraid she might bolt if he moves too fast.
Like she's a wild animal he doesn't want to spook.
Vanna doesn't bolt.
She sits frozen, her hand crushing mine, her eyes fixed on the man who helped destroy her life.
But also the man who gave her life in the first place.
