She was moving because she was getting divorced—carrying boxes into the house of a new guy. She was certain she would marry him, the homeowner, but not yet. Not until her divorce was finalized.
In her hands, a shoebox full of canary yellow envelopes. Uniform in color and size. All addressed to a P.O. Box in Indianapolis. The return address had no name—no first, no last—just a nine-digit number. An inmate number. Red letters stamped the envelopes: INMATE CORRESPONDENCE. A warning followed, noting the contents were subject to examination.
Letters from her father.
Since the '90s, since she was a child, she had carried that box from home to home. Eight homes in total: childhood homes, dorm rooms, apartments, the spare bedroom of her first husband’s family.
She carried them to remember. For proof—if someone ever doubted her. Sharing her childhood felt like being on the witness stand: too many gaps in the story, too fantastic a tale, too few details.
As she walked past the trash can toward the front door of the home she would occupy for the next five years, she paused. The box was suddenly heavy. Her arms hurt.
She no longer cared to prove anything to anyone—because she knew, finally, what was real.
At one point, she had told a therapist that when she was ready to let go of the letters, she would burn them. But that seemed too formal, too dramatic—too meaningful a send-off.
Tossing them in the garbage, like a bloody tampon to live with the cat shit, felt right.
She propped open the lid and flipped the box in. It landed on top of banana peels and grocery sacks of used kitty litter.
She remembered a Sunday morning in the car—eight years old again.
"I don't want to go," the little girl had whined from the passenger seat.
"Now, Carrie, I already promised him," her mother said firmly.
They were supposed to be going to church. But she noticed the route wasn’t familiar. Not a church route. It was a less familiar, yet still known one.
"Are we going to the prison?" Carrie asked. But she already knew the answer.
She didn’t particularly want to go to church—but she definitely didn’t want to go to prison.
They were close. They had passed the sign warning drivers not to pick up hitchhikers.
Around then, her mother would give the usual reminder: Don’t act like a brat.
In the dirt and gravel parking lot, the mother and daughter got out and walked to a small, closet-sized shed by the gate. Inside, a man took their names and license plate number. Her mother always forgot it, so Carrie had to run back to the car, read it out loud, and recite it.
"She’s a really smart girl," her mother would beam, patting her on the shoulder.
The man didn’t acknowledge the compliment. He just pressed a button. A buzzer sounded. The high chain-link fence crowned with barbed wire opened.
"Have a good visit," he said. He said that to all of them. His supervisor called it customer service. He called it a waste of breath when talking to his wife.
Long corridors. A locker room. Her mother surrendered her purse and keys. A few folded bills from her wallet went into a clear sandwich bag.
They entered the women’s side. Female visitors were patted down by female guards, male visitors by male guards—in separate rooms. The women’s side was always crowded. Carrie often thought it would be faster if they could just use the men’s line.
"Arms out," a large woman commanded. They complied.
Metal detector.
Carrie always feared it would go off on her. Why? She didn’t know. But she was always scared she’d do something wrong here.
After inspecting their shoes, the guard turned to the mother.
"What is your relationship with the inmate Thompson? Girlfriend? Wife?"
"Oh no! I'm not dating him."
"Okay, so you're his friend?"
"Not really. I'm here with her—she's his daughter."
"Yes, she is his daughter. I know that. What is your relationship? Court appointed escort?"
The girl looked from face to face as the women squared off over the miscommunication. Why did mom always make it so hard?
Finally, she stepped in, pulling a word from an afternoon TV show she wasn’t supposed to watch.
"She’s his baby mama. I'm his daughter and she is my mother."
Checking a box on her clipboard the guard said, "Oh. Okay. You can proceed. Remember the rules," the guard said, pointing to a large wall of them.
There were more rules, but they were already being escorted toward the visitors' room.
But her mother reviewed the important ones in the car every time:
Don’t tell him anything personal—not your best friend's name, not your school, not your teacher’s name.Don’t let him touch money.If we get him a candy bar, you put the dollar in and press the buttons.Be sure to tell him how well you’re doing in school.Don’t talk too much.Don’t talk to anyone but me and him and the guards.Only answer the guards' questions.Don’t offer anything extra.
The visiting room wasn’t like on TV. No Plexiglass. No phones. It looked like an elementary school cafeteria—round tables with plastic chairs. A wall of vending machines: candy bars, chips, sodas. A coffee and hot chocolate machine that ground beans before spitting hot liquid into cups that dropped like magic. Always too hot.
Nothing over two dollars.
A mural of a beach scene was crudely painted on plywood and mounted to the wall. After the visit, you and the inmate could pose for a Polaroid in front of it. She had at least seven like that—in the same box that held the letters. Letters from her father. Always addressed to the P.O. Box her mom had opened just for him.
They were directed to a round table.
"Inmate Thompson will be with you shortly."
He approached, escorted by a guard. Her father seemed bigger than last time. As he always said, "Nothing in prison but to work out and read and write letters." His uniform wasn’t black-and-white stripes. It was denim. Levi’s jeans. Levi’s button-up shirt. A sliver of a white undershirt peeked from the collar.
No hugs. Other inmates hugged their visitors, but not him. Not them. No hugs. That was a rule reviewed in the car.
Hands flat on the table where the guards could see them.
"Can I hold your hand?" he asked.
The girl looked at her mother, who gave a small nod. He took her hand. It was heavy. Damp with sweat. She didn’t like it.
A few weeks later, a letter arrived, addressed to her:
“Sorry if your old geezer daddy embarrassed you by holding your hand. I’ll never do it again if you don’t want me to. You’re just growing into such a beautiful young lady. I got a little carried away holding your hand like that. I forget sometimes how grown-up you're getting. You’re not a little kid anymore. Still, you’ll always be my little girl.
I’ve been reading a lot, getting stronger. Stronger than I’ve ever been. Smarter too. You’d be surprised what a man can learn when he’s got nothing but time. When I get out, we’ll have a lot to talk about. Real talks. The way smart people, like us, talk."
She carried that letter for years. But it was instantly obvious—to both her and her mother—that she hadn’t been embarrassed.
Embarrassment is raising your hand in class and getting the answer wrong.
What she felt that day was fear—the uneasy, creeping kind that comes from not knowing exactly why you feel unsafe. At the time, she didn’t fully understand why he was there. Her mother first called it a small incident with drugs. Later, at nine-years-old, she was told the truth. It had been a yearlong thing with a six-year-old girl.Deep down, Carrie had always known.
After a few silent minutes of hand holding, her mother intervened.
"Hey, Tommy, you want something to eat?"
"Sure," he said, releasing the girl's hand. She followed her parents to the vending machines, relieved.
"Why don’t you help your father, Carrie?" her mother said, handing her the sandwich bag of bills.
"Okay."
"I want a Snickers. That’s A9. And Lay’s chips. I ain’t had those in a while. That’s R3. Can you do that, Carrie? Can’t you, sweetie?" he asked.
The pet name felt uncomfortable. Like wearing a wet swimsuit all day, even if it was just for a second.
"Yeah."
She pulled out a dollar and fed it into the machine. Her small fingers pressed A, then 3.
The machine whirred and dropped a Cookies and Cream bar.
She knew her mistake immediately.
"I’m sorry," she whispered.
"Well, I guess you’ll have to have that candy, Carrie," her mother said, taking the money back. She didn’t particularly want a Cookies and Cream bar, but for the next ten years, everyone would think it was her favorite.
Seeing money change hands, a guard with a gun on his hip stepped closer to watch. Her mother rolled her eyes as if to mockingly say "God forbid an inmate almost touch a dollar bill."
Sighing, the mother said to the inmate:
"I’ll just have to do it myself as usual. You know, she’s smart in other ways. She’s been doing good in school. She's book smart. Like you. What you been reading, Tom?"
Yes, Carrie was smart. Smart enough to carry it all for years—because no one would believe her.
Not when hundreds of men behind those walls shared the same story.
And carrying that weight was the only way for their children to survive.
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