After 3 years in prison, I came home to find my father dead and my stepmother in his house. “He was buried a year ago,” she said coldly. She didn’t know he’d left me a secret letter with a key. It led me to a storage unit, and a video he’d made before he d;ie;d. “She framed you,” he said.
Freedom didn’t taste the way I’d imagined it would. It tasted like diesel exhaust, burnt coffee, and cold morning air—like a bus station at dawn where the world keeps moving without noticing who’s been left behind. I stepped through the heavy iron gate clutching a clear plastic bag that held everything I owned: two flannel … Read more