The judge gave him eleven months, a long probation, and a list of rules about phones and other people’s accounts.
My mother did not ask for more.
She did not ask for less.
The first Sunday he was inside, she put on her blue cardigan, packed a thermos of coffee she wasn’t allowed to bring in, and rode the bus out to the county j*il anyway, with Hank Dwyer beside her carrying her purse.
I drove.
I waited in the parking lot with the heater running.
When she came out, her eyes were red, and she took a long time to buckle her seat belt.
“What did you say to him?” I asked.
“That I forgive him.”
She looked out at the gray sky.
“And that I will never again hand him a key.”
Kristen moved out of their house that October.
She sent my mother a letter on pale blue stationery, three pages, and no excuses.
