Some nights, I lie awake and imagine what it’ll be like when he finally walks out. The door opens, the world is waiting, and I’m there, just like I’ve always imagined. Will it feel real, or will it feel like I’ve been dreaming all these years? Will we know each other instantly, or will there be awkward pauses, years of absence folded into every word?
I picture us doing the simplest things—watching a game on TV, arguing over which movie to watch, making terrible pancakes on a Sunday morning. Things most families take for granted. Things I’ve never had the chance to take for granted.
I think about the people who don’t understand why I hold on so tightly to a man who’s been locked away longer than I’ve been alive. They ask why I care so much, why I make the trips, why I don’t just accept it and move on. They don’t get it. They don’t see the gap he’s left in my life, the hand that should have been there to steady me.
I’ve tried to explain it, but words feel useless. How do you explain a love that doesn’t fit neatly into their ideas of family or justice? How do you explain that every small victory I have, every step forward in school, every day I survive the depression—it’s all tethered to him, to his fight, to the belief that we’re not broken beyond repair?
Sometimes, I think he fights too. Behind those walls, through the routine and the monotony, he fights to stay himself, to stay strong for me, to make sure when he comes home, he’s still the man I’ve been waiting for. I imagine him reading, writing letters, maybe even doing push-ups in his cell—anything to keep the fire alive.
And in the quiet moments, when the loneliness and the anger hit hardest, I remind myself: he’s not gone. Not really. Not while I carry him in my stories, in my hopes, in the small ways I try to make him proud.
Maybe one day, we’ll get a second chance at normal. Maybe the system will crack, maybe justice will bend in a way that finally lets him walk free. And when that day comes, I’ll be there, running toward him like I’ve been running toward that moment my whole life.
Until then, I keep living in the space between visits and phone calls, between hope and heartbreak. And in that space, I find something precious: resilience. The ability to survive. The ability to keep loving. The ability to wait for a day that feels impossibly far away but is, in my heart, always coming.
Because love, even when trapped behind walls, doesn’t fade. It waits, patient and stubborn, for the moment it can breathe again. And I’ve learned something important: waiting doesn’t make us weak. Waiting makes us strong.
The day starts like any other visit day, but there’s a tension in the air I can’t shake. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s the mixture of both that makes my stomach twist like it’s trying to tie itself into a knot.
The bus ride is long, the hours stretching like they always do, but today, I hardly notice. I keep thinking about what it will feel like to see him again, to finally hold a conversation that isn’t rushed, that doesn’t end with a wave across glass.
When I step into the visiting hall, my heart skips a beat. And there he is—Bulldog. Older than I remember from the last visit, yes, but still unmistakably him. There’s a spark in his eyes, a flash of the man who taught me to keep fighting even when the world seems determined to break us.
This time, the rules are different. The glass is gone, and we sit across a table, just a few feet apart. I can see the lines etched into his face, the hands calloused and worn, but I also see relief. Relief that I made it. Relief that we’re finally here, in the same space, without barriers.
We start talking, slowly at first. Tentative words that feel like testing the waters, like trying to see if the other is still the person you’ve been imagining for years. And then the words flow, unbroken. He listens when I speak, and I finally get to hear him speak without the muffling of distance or barriers.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel like a real family. Not stories, not fleeting moments squeezed into schedules. Real. Present. Alive.
He asks about my school, my friends, my struggles. I ask about him—about the years he’s spent away, the fights he’s had to fight just to stay upright, the dreams he still holds. We laugh at small things, share memories, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like the years apart never happened.
And then, something shifts. I see the weariness in his eyes give way to something else—hope. And I realize, maybe for the first time, that hope isn’t just mine to carry. It’s ours. Shared, doubled, stronger than it’s ever been.
When the time to leave comes, it’s hard, harder than ever. But this time, there’s a hug. Real. Solid. And it’s enough to remind me that while the world outside still moves in cruel, indifferent ways, inside these moments, we are unbroken.
The bus ride home is quiet, but this time it isn’t heavy. It’s full. Full of possibility. Full of plans. Full of the knowledge that one day, the waiting will end, and until then, we’ve got this. We’ve got each other, and that is more than enough to keep fighting.
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