Twenty-two years ago, I went to prison. My daughter Emma was three. Her mother told me during a visit that she was filing for divorce and moving east. She said Emma didn’t need a convict for a father.
I didn’t fight it. I was broken. I figured she was right.
I did twelve years. Got out. Got sober. Found a club that kept me straight. Rebuilt my life one day at a time.
But every single day, I thought about Emma.
I tried to find her when I got out. Her mother had changed their last name. Moved twice. Left no trail. It took two more years and a private investigator to track them down.
Savannah. Emma was twenty-five. Had a job. An apartment. A life that didn’t include me.
I didn’t call first. I thought if she saw me, something in her would remember. I was wrong.
