Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine myself here. Inside a nowhere-ville McDonald’s on Father’s Day, waiting. Waiting, because for the first time in 14 months I chose to face my skeletons. I was here to visit my incarcerated father in prison.
I can count on one hand the number of letters I’ve written him since his sentencing. No telephone calls. Few emails. The decision to visit was fairly spontaneous, made just a few days earlier. I’d assumed Father’s Day would be fitting.
The 3-hour drive was uneventful. I was alone and took the opportunity to shuffle through stations, sing too loud to some 90s classics, and daydream. Reality finally struck me when I turned off the highway and saw my first glimpse of the prison facility, still about one half mile down the road. I pulled over and sobbed, breathless.
The wind had been knocked out of me. Sucker-punched. Crippling sorrow. My dad, in prison. In front of me stood the cold, barbed-wire surround, concrete (literal and figurative) evidence.
Prison.
Dad, how did this even happen?
The shame of his sins has been pulsing through my veins for far too long. It is a topic I don’t often discuss. Most of my friends have no idea. (I suppose they will, now.) A stowaway secret that consumes me at times. Its head rearing at the most unexpected opportunities. A rollercoaster of grief that can mask itself on request. I hide it too well. Except at home.
At home I’m a nightmare. I’m irritable. Unproductive. Uninvolved. Lacking motivation and desire to engage with my family. My husband can see through my mask. He allows me to grieve. He awards me space and time as needed; bless him. Google searches dominate my smartphone history: Depression vs Grief. Grief symptoms. Disenfranchised grief. Ambiguous grief. How to know when grief turns to depression. How long do grief symptoms last.
Do my kids recognize this in me, too?
I take my husband for granted. For here I am spending Father’s Day awaiting prison visiting hours to open. I wish I was at home, celebrating the father of my own children. He deserves so much more than I can possibly give right now. Guilt washes over me.
Breathe in, breathe out. Time to walk inside.
A beautiful mom with a 12-month-old baby girl in the waiting line at the prison caught my attention. Her baby dancing among the anxious strangers. Families of all shapes and sizes and numbers and ages. The baby bringing a lightness to a heavy room. I notice the line extends far too long, looping around the room.
Waiting, waiting. Few visitors trickle through the gated door.
I watch a ten-year-old boy take off his shoes before proceeding through the metal detector. The CO collects his mother’s glasses. The boy chats and smiles; he’s been through these motions before. Many times, it appears. My heart breaks for the children who are comfortable here.
Finally, it was announced: the lobby was closing because visitors were at capacity. Of course, it’s Father’s Day at a men’s facility. Why hadn’t I thought of that before I came? All in line were forced to leave until the lobby would reopen at 1:00pm. Families leave through the doors defeated.
I drove around the small town for ten minutes before settling on McDonald’s, the only source of familiarity within this 150 mile radius. Here I sit, alone. I notice the same mom and baby girl from the prison lobby sitting across the restaurant. Also waiting.
I look at the clock, two hours to wait. I will now miss my son’s t-ball game. I will now forfeit any Father’s Day daylight with the papa of my kids. Waiting waiting waiting. Should I go home? Dad would be crushed. I hope they have room for me at 1:00.
Three times I have cried during this trip and I have yet to see him.
…Make that four times.
39 more minutes to wait.
Mom and baby play with the paper French fry container. I can’t help but shuffle through my backpack hoping to find a toy for the little one. She reminds me of my own baby girl. No luck. She’s stuck waiting there like the rest of us. Just like me.
To all those families also waiting, I see you. I AM you. I realize while smiling across at the baby, the sins of others are not our weight to bear. For some reason, we still do. We never imagined we’d be here. Our hearts are broken all the same. A family, a community I never wanted to know.
I’m sorry for judging you. For you had no way to know you’d wind up here, waiting, too.
Just like me.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
