Our wedding happened behind scratched visitation glass, a guard watching the clock.
I expected him to be cold. Cruel, even. Instead, he was gentle. He remembered my brother’s birthday.
Asked if I’d eaten. Sent letters with tiny sketches in the margins. At first, I only acted like I cared.
Then I stopped acting. I started reading his case files at night. Missing signatures.
Dates that didn’t match. A witness who left the state right after testifying.
When everyone else called him a thief, I stood outside courthouses with folders pressed to my chest, begging lawyers to look again.
He never once asked me why. By then, I loved him. Three years after our prison wedding, the truth finally came out.
