Page 4 of The Arrogant's Redemption

These days, I no longer ask not to be sent back. Nearly two years after my mom found me, I realized that would never happen.

Now, I ask Him to let us prove the truth. And bring her home.

Alexis

CHAPTER TWO

It doesn't matterhow many times I come here.

It doesn't matter how often I tell myself that Mom’s “stay” in this depressing place is only temporary.

I always leave with the same feeling—that I’m not doing enough for her.

Having spent the early years of my life in an orphanage, I consider myself mentally strong. You don’t survive the foster system unless you are. Not just because we sometimes get thrown into homes that don’t really want kids, only the picture-perfect idea of a complete family, but also because a lot of social workers should probably be in a very different profession. Kids like us don’t need any help feeling unwanted—just the fact that we’re not living with our biological parents already does that.

So I always spend the hour and a half it takes to get from Provincetown, my hometown, to the Barnstable County Correctional Facility—where Mom’s being held—trying to convince myself that this time walking through the gates I won’t feel like someone’s tearing my heart out. But the truth is, the feeling never changes. I go in heavy and come out heavier.

I’m a realist leaning toward the optimistic side. I know there’s a lot of evil in the world, but I try to look on the bright side of things. Still, watching the woman I love most in this world locked up for a crime she didn’t commit makes me feel like my life force is slowly draining away.

After going through the standard security check at the prison, I make my way to see my mom.

It feels like lead weights are tied to my feet—I’m dragging myself down the hallway. Not because I don’t want to see her—being with my mom is the highlight of my week—but because I hate seeing her here.

However, all the heavy thoughts vanish the second we’re face-to-face.

The visitation room is huge—they use one of the cafeteria areas to host families on Sundays. But right now, I don’t see or hear anyone else. Just her.

I don’t say a word. I just run into her arms and stay there, wrapped in her embrace for over a minute.

Love is a dangerous thing—and at the same time, it’s salvation. It makes us vulnerable to one person but invincible to the rest of the world. In my mother’s arms, I feel safe, protected, like the little girl she rescued from the orphanage the day she found me.

I don’t care if she notices how much her love means to me as she hugs me, strokes my hair, and kisses my forehead.

Away from her, I’m a warrior. I’ll fight like a lioness to defend her—becoming the mother instead of the daughter. When it comes to anyone else in this world, I feel untouchable. But with my mom . . . I’m still a girl.

Not even Badger, whom I adore, gets all of me.

To love someone is to trust—and I’m not good at that.

“I brought muffins,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice steady.

“I heard that, Alexis,” says another inmate—Delores—who always gets a few muffins when I come.

“At least a dozen, Delores,” I reply, forcing a smile, like we’re just hanging out in someone’s living room and not in a place where my heart feels as trapped as these women’s bodies—surrounded by cold walls and barbed wire.

I’m not naïve enough to think everyone here is innocent. On the contrary, I’m sure many have committed crimes—some violent ones. But I believe in gray areas. I don’t think people are only good or only bad. I think we all float between those extremes, depending on the circumstances.

Take Delores, for example. She’s here for killing her ex-husband. She caught him abusing their three-year-old daughter. From where I stand, the justice system protected him, not her—she was just defending her child. But the judge called it excessive force, not self-defense. That’s what she told me.

In the third row to our left, there’s another inmate—what they call a serial killer in forensic psychology. She was a caregiver for elderly women and smothered at least five of them.

Angels and demons.

Just like in real life, prison has both. Some are avengers—like Delores—not angels in the literal sense but people who acted out of desperation. And then there are the innocent ones—like my mother. Trapped in a corrupt system where, if you’re poor and a crime happens near you, the powerful don’t hesitate to point fingers.

“Good to know, girl,” Delores says, pulling me back to the present. “These hips wouldn’t mind gaining another inch or two.”

She’s thin—model-thin—but eats like a longshoreman after a double shift. One of those lucky women who never has to try to stay in shape.

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