He remembered my brother’s birthday without needing reminders. Asked, every single visit, if I’d eaten that day.
Sent letters with tiny sketches drawn in the margins. At first, I was only performing care for the money.
Then, at some point, I stopped performing entirely. I started reading through his case files late at night.
Missing signatures. Dates that simply didn’t add up. A key witness who left the state right after testifying against him.
While everyone else called him a thief, I stood outside courthouses, arms full of folders, begging lawyers for just a few more minutes of their time.
He never once questioned why I kept doing it. By then, I already loved him.
Three years after our prison wedding, the truth finally surfaced. His own cousin had been the one moving the money, forging his signature, letting him take the full weight of the blame.
