Lena respected his honesty. She had not forgiven the years of school concerts, emergencies, and ordinary mornings he had left her to face alone. Some days she did not know whether their marriage would survive his return. But she had never doubted that Micah loved his father, or that Isaac, whatever else he had failed to do, loved his son.
That was why she agreed to the Family Table invitation. It was also why she almost changed her mind.
Three weeks earlier, Isaac had called during his allotted fifteen minutes and asked her to contact a legal-aid attorney. His tone had been more guarded than usual. He explained that he had found irregularities in the cafeteria inventory while helping with a literacy class that used kitchen records for basic bookkeeping exercises. The number of food cartons purchased did not match the number received. Some deliveries had been recorded twice. Invoices for the family-visitation program listed supplies that kitchen workers had never seen.
Lena had asked why he had become involved.
"Because somebody needs to say it," he told her. "They tell us not to ask questions. Then they take the food and write our names beside the missing boxes."
A week later he lost his library assignment for what the disciplinary form described as disrespectful behavior. The following day, his visitation privileges were placed under review. Isaac had insisted the accusations were false. Lena did not know whom to believe. Prison calls were recorded, letters went missing, and the people who made the decisions had all the keys.
She had saved the details and called the number he gave her. The lawyer, Samuel Reed, listened carefully, requested copies of the discipline notices, and told her he had already received similar reports from other families. He warned her that an investigation might take time. He also told her to report any threat or unusual behavior during visits.
This morning, as they prepared to leave, Lena looked again at the invitation. She could feel Micah studying her face.
"Are we still going?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "We're still going."
On the drive north, Micah asked what prison food tasted like, whether his father would be allowed to hug him, and whether the other men would think his drawing was babyish. Lena answered what she could. She did not tell him how badly her stomach hurt every time she saw the correctional facility rise beyond the highway, all gray stone, chain-link fences, and watchtowers on the horizon.
At the first checkpoint, an officer looked into their trunk. At the second, a woman checked Lena's identification against a printed list and put a pale green visitor band around Micah's wrist. The child stared at it as though it might be the ticket to an amusement park. Lena thought of how quickly children learned to make excitement out of things adults dreaded.