A baby. Our baby.
Growing inside her while she fights for her life in a rehab facility four hours away.
And now I'm about to visit her father.
Rick Smith.
The man who sold laced heroin and got people killed.
The man whose dealing destroyed our family—fed Vanna's mother's addiction until it killed her, left Vanna so broken she chased the same high just to stop feeling.
The man Vanna hasn't spoken to since he got locked up.
But he's also the only person who might understand what she's going through.
The only person who's been where she's been and come out the other side.
I called ahead and arranged a visit.
I didn't tell Vanna because I didn't want to get her hopes up—didn't even know if I'd go through with it until I was already on the road this morning.
Now I'm here, and I'm going in.
The check-in process is long and degrading.
Metal detectors. Pat-downs. Forms to fill out in triplicate.
The guards look at my cut with barely concealed suspicion, but they don't turn me away.
I'm on the approved visitor list—Vanna added me years ago, back when she still thought she might want to see her father someday.
She never did, but the approval never expired.
The visiting room is exactly what I expected.
Plastic chairs bolted to the floor.
Vending machines against the wall.
Families scattered around small 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.
I take a seat at an empty table and wait.
When Rick walks in, I almost don't recognize him.
The last time I saw him was at his trial, twelve years ago.
He was gaunt then, hollow-eyed, shaking from withdrawal.
I sat in the back of the courtroom with Vanna, watching her father get sentenced to life for selling the poison that killed three people.
She didn't cry.
Just sat there, frozen, like she'd already lost him long before the judge spoke.
The man standing in front of me now is different.
