Nothing was private in here. Not even this.
I typed in my inmate number and waited for the interface to load. The prison used some bargain-bin email system that looked like it hadn’t been updated since 2005. We got thirty minutes of computer time, twice a week. Thirty minutes to reach out to anyone who still wanted to hear from us.
I pulled up a new message and typed Gwen’s email address into the recipient line. My mom had given it to me a couple years ago, just in case. I’d memorized it instantly. Stared at those letters and numbers like they were a map to buried treasure.
My family’s contact with Gwen had been whittled down to almost nothing. Birthday cards. Holiday gifts. All at her mother’s request, and I’d gone along with it because I got it. My family was an extension of me, and she wanted distance from anything that carried my name. But sitting here now, I was second-guessing all of it. Because Gwen wasn’t just missing out on her father. She was missing out on grandparents, her aunt. An entire half of herself she barely knew existed.
The cursor blinked in the empty message field.
What the fuck do you say to your daughter when you haven’t spoken to her in years?
I positioned my fingers over the keyboard.
Subject: From Your Dad
Gwen,
It’s been a long time since you heard from me. I want you to know that not a single day has passed where I haven’t thought about you. Where I haven’t wondered if you’re happy. If you’re safe. If life has been good to you.
More than anything in this world, Gwen, I want you to be happy. That’s the only reason I cut all ties. I thought it was best for you to grow up without the burden of having a dad in prison. Without having to explain me to your friends. Without carrying that weight on your shoulders.
The memories of our short time together … that’s what gets me through each day in here. When the walls close in and the nights feel endless, I go back to you. To us. I wonder if you remember those times too. If any part of you held on to them the way I have.
I think of your pigtails dancing in the light. I wonder if you still have that pink elephant I gave you for your third birthday. I’d taken you to the toy store and let you walk around the entire place. Three times. And out of every toy in that rainbow-colored store, that’s what you picked.
You carried that pink elephant everywhere you went. And you took such good care of it. When its trunk suffered a tear, you and I worked together to fix it. I bought a needle and thread, and you held the lamp for me while I sewed it back together. Your little fingers kept adjusting the angle of the light, so serious, like you were assisting in surgery.
Do you remember that?
You probably don’t remember that I bought three of those elephants afterward, so you’d always have one if anything happened to the first.
I wonder about a lot of things while I’m in here. I wonder if you remember me at all. You were only four when I went away, and I read in parenting books that memories before that age are often forgotten.
But I remember everything about you.
I remember how you used to sleep on your left side, with your little hand tucked beneath your cheek. How you’d wake up before the sun even came up and drag that pink elephant behind you, its trunk bumping against each stair, until you climbed into my bed. I’d pull you against my chest. Sometimes you’d fall back asleep, your breath warm against my collarbone. Sometimes you’d put your little hands on my cheeks and say, “Up time, Daddy.”
You don’t know how many times I’ve wished I could go back in time for just one day. If I could, I’d pick one of those mornings. And I’d never let you go.
Gwen, I need you to know that I didn’t want to let you go. But I felt like it was the right thing to do.
You’re not a little girl anymore. You’re eighteen.
I’m up for parole soon. Well, technically, it’s called early release these days. But most people know the word parole, so that’s what I call it.
If I get released, I’d give anything to see you. Even if it’s just once. Even if it’s just for five minutes.
If you don’t want that, I understand. I do. But if there’s any part of you that wants to meet the man who’s thought about you every single day for fourteen years, I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere.
This is my inmate email. You can reach me through this system if you want to.
Please know that I love you with everything in my soul, Gwen. I pray that you have a beautiful life. I let myself imagine what you must look like now, and every time I do, I picture you with a big smile, twirling in the sunshine the way you used to.
Stay in the sunshine, Gwen. Always stay there.
I love you more than Reese’s Pieces.
Love, Dad
