In the matter of a few days, my life had fallen completely apart. How it happened was still incomprehensible, but it had happened nonetheless, and I was at a complete loss as to where to go from here.
Bronn walking away from me was almost more painful than finding out my father hadn’t died on that hot spring day all those years ago. My dad hadn’t chosen to leave me, to abandon me, but Bronnson had. We’d said horrible things to one another, slinging insults that I don’t think either of us meant. And for a second, it looked like he was going to hear me out, maybe even change his mind.
I’d clung to that moment and the consideration that I’d seen in his eyes. But the hope had been short lived, reality crashing back down on me.
I’d collapsed in that stairwell, my sobs echoing in the emptiness—the emptiness that matched the way I felt inside. I don’t know how long I’d stayed there, crying until there were no tears left to fall, but eventually Riley had found me and carried me to his car. He hadn’t taken me back to my grandmother’s, thank God. I don’t think I could have stomached the sight of the house.
I know that I need to get out of bed and pull myself together, but I just can’t seem to find the will to move. As soon as Riley had pulled into his driveway, I’d sprinted from the car and locked myself in his guest bedroom. He’d tried to check on my several times throughout the afternoon and evening, but eventually had gotten the point when I refused to acknowledge his presence. I’d laid in the bed, alternating between crying and staring at the ceiling.
Bronn plagued my dreams during the fitful snatches of sleep I’d gotten, and I couldn’t shake the despair that lingered. Every time I closed my eyes I saw his face and watched as he walked away from me. I kept trying to push the thoughts of him away, but the profound ache in my chest wouldn’t allow it. It was as if he had ripped my heart from my chest and taken it with him as he strode away, never once looking back.
I couldn’t blame him.
I wanted to.
But I couldn’t.
He believed that my father murdered his dad.
He’d spent his whole life living with that knowledge and letting the hate fester. There was no way to expect him to suddenly change his mind and welcome my father with open arms. I couldn’t expect him to believe me. At least not yet.
He needed time.
And even though it killed me, I would give it to him.
My stomach is in knots, the fear of the unknown so great that I almost didn’t come.
The prison had loomed large when I’d arrived, the barbwire fencing not just a movie dramatization, but a reality, and it was something that was both terrifying and depressing at the same time.
Riley had tried to come with me, but this was something that I had to do on my own.
He’d discovered the connection between Bronn and my father yesterday morning, and that was the important news he’d been trying to tell me. Maybe if I had known, things would have gone differently. But it didn’t matter, it was done and there was no going back to that courtroom and changing things.
I’d reassured him that I didn’t blame him, and little by little, my resentment toward him was waning.
I am perched on the edge of a cold metal seat after having gone through the series of gates and metal detectors. Now I wait for the guards to bring my father in. I am chewing my nails, a habit that I’ve never had before, while my mind spins in a million directions.
I don’t know what to expect from today’s visit.
Since he had added me to the approved visitors’ list, I know he is willing to talk to me. And his reaction after seeing me yesterday had me hopeful that he was happy about it.
But it has been seventeen years. And he has been in prison all that time.
Would he be the same Daddy I remembered?
Probably not.
That thought terrifies me. I don’t know what I will say to him. I don’t know if he will want me to touch him or hug him or hold his hand. I hope that he does because I ach to do all of those things.
The room fills with other people, all here to see their loved ones. The group varies, the people coming from all walks of life. There are old women who must be here to see their children. Children, like me, waiting to see their fathers.
As the last visitor trickles in, the guards begin to escort the inmates in, and one by one they enter the room. Relief floods my veins when I see that they aren’t shackled, the first prisoners coming in able to hug and kiss their family members.
I’m holding my breath and my lungs begin to burn when I finally see my father shuffle through the door.
His eyes land on the table that I’m seated at and he makes his way over to me.
The man before me isn’t the same defeated man from yesterday. Today, his shoulders are squared, his head held high. His face is still haggard, something that I fear it will always be from his years in this hell, but he’s smiling and his eyes are shining brightly at me.
My breath leaves my chest in a loud whoosh, and a wave of dizziness washes over me. I grip the edge of the table to steady myself, but the moment my dad stops in front of me I release it and launch myself at him. I’m desperate to hug this man for the first time in seventeen long, agonizing years.
He wraps his arms around me, holding me tightly and with his lips in my hair, murmuring my name over and over.
We stand like that, arm in arm, his hand rubbing my back while I sob on his shoulder for what feels like an eternity. I absorb the way it feels to be held by my father for the first time since I was a child.
When my eyes are finally dry I pull away, and with a chaste laugh tell him, “I’m sorry.” I swipe a finger under my eyes, hoping that I haven’t smeared my mascara. “I’ve cried more in the last week than I have my entire life.”
My dad’s face softens. “Bear, you don’t have nothin’ to apologize for.”
My heart stutters, hearing his voice call me by the pet name he had for me. “Bear,” I murmur. “God, I’ve missed hearing that.”
We sit across from each other and he reaches a hand across the table. I latch onto it, determined not to let go until I absolutely have to.
The silence between us is awkward as we both assess the other. I wonder if he’s trying to memorize my face the same way I did his. I wonder if he approves of what he sees?
Do I look the way he imagined when he wrote that letter on my eighteenth birthday?
As if he were a mind reader, he speaks, his voice steady but soft. “You look like your mama. But my golly, you are so beautiful. I don’t believe that I had any part of making you.”
I laugh softly, blushing at the compliment.
“Daddy, there are so many things I want to tell you. To ask you. I don’t even know where to begin.”
I’m afraid to ask him about what really happened, but the questions are burning in my brain, and my need to know everything grows with each passing minute.
I want to get him out of here, and to do that I need to know every detail, no matter how tough they may be to hear.
A part of me, however, wants to just talk to him, to tell him about myself, to ask him questions about him. Like his favorite color, his favorite candy, stupid stuff that may be unimportant to some. But to me, I need to know every detail about him, to make up for lost time. Those are all things a daughter would know about her father if she had grown up with him.
The room around us is noisy, the other inmates and visitors talking. Some are weeping, others laughing, but most are sitting just as we are, holding hands across the table, heads bent together, while they talk, connect, and love one another.
“Grace, I’ll tell you everything you want to know. But for now, I really just want to get to know my daughter.”
I can’t refuse his request, and in truth I’m relieved that we’ll spend our first visit together reconnecting. Something that’s long overdue.