Chapter 10 - THE LETTER FROM CELL BLOCK C
The morning sunlight hit the kitchen island just like it always did.
Lucas was smearing strawberry jam across his toast with pure, unbridled determination.
Beside him, Sophie was carefully lining up her cheerios into a crooked little army.
"More juice, Mama," Sophie announced, tapping her plastic cup against the wooden table.
I smiled, reaching into the refrigerator for the carton.
Life had slowly stitched itself back together over the past eighteen months.
The bruises on my stomach had long faded into faint, silver stretch marks.
The terror that used to wake me at three in the morning had finally loosened its grip.
Ryan walked into the kitchen, buttoning his crisp blue work shirt and kissing the top of my head.
"I have that site inspection out in Oak Creek today," he murmured against my hair.
"Will you be home in time for dinner?" I asked, handing him his coffee mug.
"Nothing could keep me away from your pot roast," he said with a soft grin.
Then the mailbox at the end of the gravel driveway clattered shut.
Our mail carrier, Mr. Henderson, gave two quick taps on his horn before driving away.
"I’ll grab it on my way out," Ryan offered, sliding his keys off the magnetic hook.
I watched through the front bay window as he walked down the path toward the road.
He reached inside the metal box and pulled out a stack of colorful flyers and bills.
Halfway back up the driveway, his feet came to a sudden, rigid halt.
His shoulders tensed so violently that I saw his blazer tighten across his back.
"Ryan?" I whispered to myself, setting the jam jar down onto the counter.
He didn't move for nearly thirty seconds, staring at a single piece of white paper.
When he finally walked back through the front door, his face had lost every trace of color.
"What is that?" I asked, my chest tightening with an old, familiar dread.
Ryan looked down at our children, who were giggling as Lucas dropped a cheerio onto the floor.
"Nora, come into the hallway for a second," he said, his voice barely a rasp.
I followed him into the narrow passage near the coat closet, away from tiny ears.
He held up a plain white envelope stamped with red institutional ink.
In the upper left corner sat the state seal of the women's correctional facility.
The sender’s name was written in sharp, slanted ballpoint ink: *Brianna Vance*.
My stomach plummeted straight through the floor, cold nausea rising in my throat.
"Why is she writing to us?" my voice cracked, my hands suddenly trembling.
"There's a restraining order," Ryan said, his knuckles turning white around the paper. "She knows she can't contact us."
"Open it," I whispered, barely able to breathe.
Ryan slid his thumb under the seal, tearing the cheap paper open with a jagged rip.
Inside was a single handwritten page and an official court docket form.
Ryan's eyes scanned the first few lines, and his jaw locked so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.
"What does it say, Ryan?" I demanded, grabbing his forearm.
He looked at me, his eyes wide with disbelief and an agonizing sense of betrayal.
"She’s petitioning for an early compassionate release hearing," he choked out.
"On what grounds?" I gasped. "She attacked me while I was carrying your babies!"
Ryan swallowed hard, pointing to the printed attachment stapled behind the letter.
"She has a sponsor," he said, his voice shaking with absolute rage. "Someone paid her restitution fees and offered her a residence."
I looked down at the sponsor's signature scrawled at the bottom of the petition.
It wasn't a stranger, and it wasn't a legal aid society.
May you like
The signature belonged to Ryan’s mother, Evelyn.
***
