They Took Me Into A Back Office So They Could Take Over What Was Mine. My Son And His Wife Laughed, “You’re On Your Own. Everything Is Ours.” But When The Supervisor Closed The Door, He Noticed The Ring On My Hand. He Leaned In And Whispered “TONIGHT YOU’LL KNOW…”

Not here. Not in front of all these strangers who had already judged me without knowing the truth. As I was dragged toward the side exit of the courthouse, I heard the murmurss of the crowd.

Some looked at me with pity, others with disgust. An older woman, who had been a friend of my late husband, looked away when our eyes met. The shame was almost heavier than the handcuffs.

The hallway to the processing area smelled of cheap disinfectant and desperation. My shoes squeaked against the worn lenolum floor as the officer silently guided me. Other convicted people passed in the opposite direction, some crying, others with lost looks, all sharing that same expression of absolute defeat.

But I wasn’t defeated. Not yet. We reached a small windowless waiting room with peeling cream colored walls and plastic chairs bolted to the floor.

An older correctional officer sat behind a metal desk reviewing papers with the slowness of someone who has done the same thing for decades. He looked up when we entered. Officer Frank Miller, read the badge on his chest.

His face was weathered, full of deep wrinkles that spoke of a hard life. His eyes were tired, but not cruel. There was a softness in them that contrasted with the surroundings.

His uniform was impeccable, carefully pressed, as if that small display of dignity was the only thing keeping him sane in this place. The escorting officer exchanged a few words with Frank, handed him a folder with my documents, and then left. The door closed with a final sound that reverberated in my ears.

I was left alone with the old correctional officer. Frank opened the folder and began to review the papers in silence. I sat on one of the plastic chairs, feeling every one of my 70 years in my joints.

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