Chapter Three:The Visits
1735 Words
Maya’s POV
The first time I visited my father about two weeks after his conviction, he asked about Mum.
He always did.
“How is your mother?”
I sat across from him, folding my arms on the table between us.
“She’s fine.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Just fine?”
I sighed. “She’s being Mum.”
That made him smile.
For a few seconds, everything felt normal.
Almost.
Then I remembered where we were.
The walls. The uniformed guards. The glass between us.
My father was still in prison.
And I still hated it.
“How are you?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I’m okay.”
“You always say that when you’re not.”
“I’m really okay this time.”
He smiled knowingly.
“Eat properly.”
I rolled my eyes. “Dad.”
“I’m serious.”
“I eat.”
“Pizza isn’t a proper meal.”
“How do you even know what I eat?”
“Because I raised you.”
I laughed quietly.
For the next hour, we talked about everything and nothing.
He asked about school. I complained about a teacher that wanted to make life difficult. He told me not to let other people’s behavior determine my mood.
The same advice he’d given me a hundred times.
Before I left, he looked at me carefully.
“Take care of yourself, Maya.”
“I will.”
“And your mother.”
“I know.”
He smiled.
“Good girl.”
I hated leaving.
But I always did.
Two days later, I went back.
Then again.
And again.
Visiting my father became a strange little routine.
Twice a week.
Same building.
Same room.
Same table.
Same man waiting on the other side.
Sometimes we talked about Mum.
Sometimes he asked about my schoolwork.
Sometimes I complained about something so insignificant that I wondered why I’d even brought it up.
He listened anyway.
That was Dad.
He never made me feel like I was wasting his time.
Even in prison.
Especially in prison.
There were days when I had nothing interesting to tell him.
I would sit across from him and talk about the smallest things.
What I ate for lunch.
What happened in class.
Something Zara said that made me laugh.
A test I was worried about.
Sometimes Dad would laugh.
Sometimes he would give me advice.
Sometimes he would simply listen.
I began to realize that maybe the visits weren’t only for me.
Maybe they were for him too.
He was still my father, even if he was sitting on the other side of a table in a prison uniform.
And I was still his daughter.
Neither of us could change that.
After one of my visits, I went straight to Zara’s house.
She opened the door before I even knocked properly.
“You’ve been looking a bit terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I walked inside.
Zara followed me into the living room.
“I saw my father today.”
“I know. You rushed out of school. Again”
“I know you know. I’m just saying.”
She dropped onto the couch.
“So say it.”
I sat beside her.
“He asked about Mum. Again.”
“That’s because he loves her.”
“He also told me to stop skipping breakfast.”
Zara stared at me.
“Your father is in prison and he’s still fighting your breakfast habits?”
I laughed.
“I know.”
For a moment, the heaviness disappeared.
Then it came back.
“I hate this.”
Zara’s expression softened.
“I know.”
“I hate walking in there and seeing him like that.”
“I know, Maya.”
“I keep thinking about how things used to be.”
She reached for my hand.
“You’re allowed to miss your old life.”
I looked down at our hands.
“I just want him home.”
“I know.”
That was Zara’s favorite sentence.
I know.
She didn’t always have solutions.
She didn’t need to.
Sometimes I just needed someone who would sit beside me while I complained about everything.
So I did.
And she listened.
The third week passed almost exactly the same way.
I visited Dad twice.
On the first visit, he asked if I was sleeping enough.
On the second, he told me to stop worrying about things I couldn’t control.
I laughed at him.
“You’re literally in prison telling me not to worry.”
He smiled.
“Exactly. So you should listen.”
I didn’t.
Of course I didn’t.
But I pretended I would.
That Saturday, I went to Zara’s again.
She was doing her nails when I walked in.
“You’re early.”
“I needed to see you.”
She immediately put the nail polish down.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why do you have that face?”
“What face?”
“The face you make when you’re about to tell me something dramatic.”
I sat beside her.
“Dad was talking about Mum again.”
“And?”
“He keeps asking if she’s okay.”
Zara shrugged.
“Maybe he’s worried about her.”
“I know.”
I picked at my nail.
“Sometimes I think he worries about everyone except himself.”
Zara smiled.
“That’s what parents do.”
I leaned back.
“I miss him.”
“I know.”
I smiled faintly.
“There you go again.”
“It’s true.”
I didn’t argue.
But lately, I had started noticing something.
Dad was asking about Mum more than usual.
At first, I didn’t think much of it.
He had always worried about her.
But now there was something different in the way he asked.
“How is your mother?”
“Did she eat?”
“Is she taking care of herself?”
“Is she resting?”
The questions sometimes came one after another.
Whenever I told him she was fine, he would look at me for a few seconds before accepting my answer.
I never understood why.
I assumed he was simply worried.
After all, he was her husband.
And he was stuck somewhere he couldn’t do anything to help her.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
By the fourth week, visiting him felt automatic.
I didn’t even think about it anymore.
I knew what time to leave.
I knew what to bring.
I knew how long the visit would last.
And I knew that, eventually, I’d have to walk away from him again.
That day, Dad looked tired.
Not sick.
Just tired.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I’m fine.”
I frowned.
“That’s my line.”
He smiled.
“You learned it from me.”
We talked for a while.
About Mum.
About my school and my plan once I’m done.
About Zara.
He laughed when I told him about something stupid she’d done.
Then he became quiet.
Too quiet.
“Dad?”
He looked at me.
“Maya.”
Something in his voice made me straighten.
“Yeah?”
“You need to forget about me.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Forget everything.”
I laughed nervously.
“Dad, what are you talking about?”
“Your life is ahead of you.”
“I know.”
“Don’t look back.”
My smile disappeared.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you saying this?”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“Don’t dig into my case.”
I frowned.
“Dad—”
“Promise me.”
I didn’t answer.
“Maya.”
“I can’t promise that.”
“You have to.”
“Why?”
His eyes softened.
“Because I said so.”
I shook my head.
“You can’t just tell me to forget my own father.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
He didn’t answer.
Before I could ask again, a guard appeared beside the door.
“Time’s up.”
I turned toward him.
“Already?”
The guard nodded.
I looked back at Dad.
“Wait.”
He stood.
“Dad, we haven’t finished talking.”
“I know.”
“I’ll come back.”
He gave me a strange smile.
“Maya…”
The guard gestured for him to leave.
I stood too.
“Hold on.”
Dad took a few steps.
Then he stopped.
He turned around.
Our eyes met.
And for the first time that day, I saw something in his expression I couldn’t understand.
“You know I will always love you, right, Maya?”
My heart tightened.
“Dad…”
He smiled.
Then the guard led him away.
I stood there watching until he disappeared.
I didn’t know why those words bothered me.
Parents told their children they loved them.
My father had told me countless times.
But something about the way he’d said it felt different.
Like he needed me to remember it.
I left the prison anyway.
Just like every other day.
I went home.
Changed clothes.
Ate dinner.
Tried to distract myself.
It didn’t work.
His voice kept replaying in my head.
Forget everything.
Don’t dig into my case.
You know I will always love you, right, Maya?
I lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling.
For the first time since his conviction, I wondered if my father knew something I didn’t.
And I hated myself for wondering.
Because I had promised myself I wouldn’t doubt him.
But now…
I closed my eyes.
Maybe Dad had only been scared.
Maybe prison had changed the way he thought.
Maybe he was trying to make sure I didn’t ruin my life trying to prove his innocence.
But then I remembered his face.
The way he had looked at me when he said those words.
There had been something behind his eyes.
Something he hadn’t said.
Something he couldn’t say.
I opened my eyes and stared into the darkness.
For the first time, I wondered if my father wasn’t asking me to forget his case because he was guilty.
Maybe he was asking me to forget because the truth was much more dangerous than I realized.
I couldn’t stop thinking about his warning.
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