His voice was blunt.
I pulled a worn photograph from my bag.
My hands shook as I held it out.
“I grew up here.”
“My grandfather planted that tree when I was nine.”
He took the photograph.
He looked from the picture to the huge oak near the fence.
For one brief second, his expression softened.
But not enough to offer help.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“There’s nothing I can do.”
I nodded.
Pride was one of the few things prison had not completely stripped from me.
So I held onto it.
“Thank you.”
I turned away before he could see my face fall apart.
My name is Rebecca Miller.
I was forty-six years old when the prison gates opened for me.
I had entered at thirty-five.
Eleven years.
Four months.
Twelve days.
I knew the exact number.
People who have never been locked up think release is freedom.
