I stared at the screen until the words blurred. My throat was raw, like I’d swallowed glass.
“Five minutes, Blackwood,” the officer called out.
I didn’t acknowledge him. Couldn’t. My finger hovered over the Send button.
One click. That’s all it would take. One click, and this message would route through the prison’s monitoring system, get stamped and approved, and land in my daughter’s inbox like a grenade she never asked for.
Or maybe it would land like an olive branch.
Or maybe she’d see the sender line, prison email system, and delete it without ever reading a word.
I bit the inside of my cheek. Then I clicked Send before I could talk myself out of it.
The screen flashed.
Message sent for review.
I logged out and pushed back from the desk, my chest tight.
One email. One message that could change everything or confirm what I feared: that I’d lost her a long time ago.
That I was already forgotten.
I took a deep breath, the stale computer lab air burning my lungs, wondering:
Would my daughter even write back?
26
HARPER
The first snowflake hit my windshield like a warning I should have heeded.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, sweetheart.”
I could tell by that one word through my hands-free speaker that she was at least half a bottle of vodka deep. The syllables stretched too long, softened at the edges like butter left out overnight. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel as another gust of wind shoved my Honda toward the shoulder.
“Wanted to call and see how you’re doing,” she said.
Some days, I told myself she was doing the best she could. That I should focus on the positive. She had called me, which meant she was thinking about me. Caring about me. Which meant that somewhere, buried beneath the vodka and the excuses and the decades of disappointment, she loved me.
Other days, I reminded myself she probably wouldn’t remember this conversation by tomorrow. That she hadn’t thought to call me before the half bottle. That the vodka had taken priority.
It always took priority.
I shook my head, hating myself for the thought. My mother had a disease. Villainizing her for it made me a terrible daughter.
But maybe it was only human for pain to shapeshift. Some days, it showed up as sadness. Others, resentment. Today, it felt like exhaustion, bone-deep and heavy, settling into my chest like the snow now blanketing the road ahead.
I took a breath and made a choice. Today, I would be grateful. My mom had taken time out of her day to check on me. That counted for something.
It had to.
“I’m really good, Mom.” I flicked on my wipers, watching them drag through the slush. “How are you?”
“Really? Because …” She hesitated. “I’m worried about you.”
