First message
I feel it before I see him—the way my chest tightens when the door buzzes and the guard waves me through. The visiting room smells like stale coffee and disinfectant, but when I spot him—sitting at our usual spot, hands folded like you are praying—I swear, for a second, it all fades. You. My husband. My anchor. You smile when he sees me, tired but real, and I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until I sit down across from him and the air finally comes back into my lungs.