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At the same time, I also believe that the justice system did its job properly when it came to my father’s crime.

I’m informed of the rules: I can only take one piece of ID into the room with me, and my backpack, keys, and wallet must be secured in a locker. A short hug or kiss is permitted at the beginning and end of the visit. Hands must remain on or above the table. The offender can end the visit at any time.

I nod politely. They don’t have to worry. I want to spend as little time here as possible. Just enough to make sure I don’t have to come back.

Then I am brought to the visitors’ room, a similarly concrete-floored, beige-walled space, a pair of prison guards on each side. Two of the dozen tables are occupied—at one, a couple with their hands entwined, the two of them smiling. At the other, an older woman and a middle-aged man who bear a striking resemblance to one another, barely speaking.

And there he is at a table in the corner: the person who ended my childhood much too early.

My heart kicks back into that vicious rhythm, a rhythmic torment that reminds me I could turn around at any moment. Run out the door and never come back.

I don’t.

The first thing that registers for me isn’t his expression or his neon-orange jumpsuit. It’s the way he’s sitting.

I have seen that stance a thousand times before, forever imprinted in my memory. Shoulders back but head tipped slightly forward, a tribute to terrible posture. One leg bent, foot balanced on his other knee. Even if it’s not something my dad has trademarked, I’ve never allowed myself to sit this way.

Slowly, like a paint-by-number coming to life, I take in the details of the rest of him. The longer hair, not red like mine or my mom’s or Natalie’s but deepest brown, now shot through with gray. The depth to the wrinkles on his face. His smaller frame, thinner limbs.

Dark eyes that used to hold so much anger and that now hold an almost pleasant, cloying curiosity.

“Well, hey there,” he says, the words casual enough to be uttered while picking me up after school or greeting me at the dinner table. “Neil. It’s good to see you.”

I’m expecting his voice to register like a record scratch. Instead it’s rough gravel, less fluid than it used to be. As though he doesn’t use it in here nearly as much as he used to.

I’ve been in his presence less than thirty seconds and it’s already too surreal, to the point where I’m not sure I trust my legs to keep me standing for much longer.

Gingerly, I take the seat across from him. “Hi.” I urge myself to remain solid. Firm.

“Haven’t heard from you in a while. I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”

Impossible.

When I can’t come up with more words, he keeps going. “It’s rough, you know. Never hearing your name called at mail call.”

“I got the letters.”

“Guess that school of yours keeps you busy,” he says. “Everything you hoped it would be?”

I manage to nod. Every second I’m here, a new detail emerges. The gray-white stubble on his jaw. A scar on his left cheek that’s either new or something I never noticed. “I love it.”

The grin on his face looks so foreign. “I’m honored you made time to see your old man. A little surprised, though.”

The small talk is too painful. I can’t let him steer the conversation, make me forget why I’m here. If this is the last time I see him, I need answers. “Look…” I trail off because I realize I don’t know how to address him. “Dad” reminds me of how he scrawled it on the letter, the too-familiar reverence that he doesn’t deserve from me anymore. “I wanted to see you because—I have some questions.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Fire away. If this is about girls, then I’m glad you came to me. We should have had that conversation before, but you were too young—”

“It’s not about girls.” My jaw is set. He doesn’t deserve to know about Rowan. “It’s about… well, it’s about you, I guess.”

This piques his interest. “Really.”

“It’s for school,” I lie, although maybe it’s not a lie after all. “A genetics project. We’re trying to put together a—a family tree.” As though I’m twelve years old and crafting a literal family tree from poster board and puffy paint.

“You already know where my family’s from,” he says, and then attempts the worst British accent I have ever heard, clearly hoping for a laugh: “Jolly old England.”

I don’t give it to him. “Right. And I guess I was also wondering about our family’s history… mentally. I know there were the anger issues. Obviously.”

“I’ve been working on that. Never thought I’d end up in therapy, but here I am. Won’t be in here forever, after all.”