Chapter 9 - Shadows of the Past
By the spring of the following year, our life had transformed completely.
I had used part of my mother’s legacy to open a small pediatric physical therapy clinic—a dream I had put on hold for years while supporting Brandon’s corporate career. My clinic specialized in helping young children recovering from sports injuries and physical trauma, allowing me to spend every afternoon picking Liam up from school and cooking dinner in our sunlit kitchen.
One Tuesday afternoon, while I was organizing patient charts at my office desk, my phone rang. The caller ID displayed the address of the Southeastern Correctional Institution.
I felt a cold prickle along my spine, but I didn't tremble. I picked up the receiver.
"You have a collect call from an inmate at the Southeastern Correctional Institution," an automated mechanical voice announced. "To accept, press one."
I pressed one.
"Eleanor?" Brandon’s voice came through the line.
It sounded thin, raspy, and completely stripped of its former arrogant polish. The background noise of the prison call center—shouting inmates, buzzing metal doors, metallic echoes—punctuated every second.
"What do you want, Brandon?" I asked, my tone as flat as cold slate.
"Eleanor, please don't hang up," he pleaded frantically. "My lawyer filed a motion for early parole consideration next month. I need a character reference letter from you. If you tell the board that we've resolved our domestic issues, they'll reduce my sentence to probation!"
I let out a slow, quiet breath, leaning back in my office chair.
"A character reference?" I asked softly. "You want me to write a letter about your character?"
"I've changed, Eleanor!" Brandon lied, his voice pitch rising in familiar manipulation. "I've been taking anger management classes in here! I realize I made a mistake! Lucas and Alyssa won't even visit me anymore—Sarah won't let them! You're the only one who can help me get out of this place!"
"You didn't make a mistake, Brandon," I said clearly. "A mistake is spilling coffee on a rug. A mistake is forgetting to buy milk. Leaving an eight-year-old child locked in a summer house with no food and no air conditioning for six days while writing a note telling him he isn't worth loving... that isn't a mistake. That is who you are."
"Eleanor, I'm dying in here!" he shouted, his mask slipping back into defensive rage. "I have nothing left! My career is gone! My money is gone! My kids hate me! What more do you want from me?!"
"I don't want anything from you, Brandon," I said softly. "You're already receiving exactly what you earned."
"You cruel, ungrateful—"
"Goodbye, Brandon," I said, and calmly hung up the phone.
May you like
I immediately called the state parole board and submitted a formal, written objection, attaching a copy of the original sharpie note from the refrigerator.
Three weeks later, the parole board officially denied his motion. Brandon was ordered to serve his full six-year sentence to the very last day.
