« Bring the child. »
Three hours later, a white state vehicle entered the prison grounds. A social worker stepped out, holding the hand of an eight-year-old girl with blonde hair and solemn blue eyes.
Emily Foster walked through the long prison corridor without crying or hesitating. Even the inmates fell silent as she passed.
When she entered the visitation room, Daniel sat waiting, thinner than she remembered, wearing a faded orange prison uniform.
« My baby girl… » he whispered, tears filling his eyes.
Emily stepped forward slowly.
She didn’t run.
She didn’t cry.
She simply wrapped her arms around him.
For nearly a minute, neither of them spoke.
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