Page 98 of Imprisoned

Never thought I’d have a mother-in-law who doesn’t flinch when I enter a room.

“More lemonade, Axel?” Anna asks, climbing the steps to the veranda where I’m sitting. Sand clings to her ankles, her skin tanned from days spent in the Brazilian sun.

“Sure.” I nod, still uncomfortable with the casual domesticity of it all.

She pours the drink, ice clinking against the glass, before settling into the chair beside mine. “She’s happier than I’ve ever seen her,” Anna says, nodding toward Willow, now wading in the surf. “More herself, somehow.”

I remain silent, unsure how to respond to the grudging approval in her voice.

“I didn’t understand at first,” she continues. “Thought maybe she was being manipulated.” She laughs at herself. “But I see it now. You balance each other.”

“She calms the storm,” I admit.

Anna studies me, her eyes searching my face like Willow’s. “And you give her the strength to face the wicked parts of her.”

This new alliance between us feels fragile, built on careful conversations over late-night drinks while Willow slept. Anna asked about my childhood, about prison, about the voices. I answered as truthfully as I dared. Her clinical mind—Willow inherited that too—processing my pathology without judgment.

“You’re not what I wanted for my daughter,” she said one night, words softened by wine. “Maybe you’re what she needs.”

Now, she hands me a small leather-bound book. “Found this in town yesterday. Thought you might like it.”

It’s a journal, expensive by the feel of it, with a compass rose embossed on the cover.

“For your thoughts,” Anna explains. “Willow mentioned writing helps.”

The gesture leaves me speechless. This woman who should fear me, hate me, instead treats me like family.

“Thank you,” I manage, turning the journal over.

I go down to the shore, where Willow stands ankle-deep in the surf, her blonde hair dancing in the ocean breeze. The sand is hot beneath my bare feet until I reach the shoreline where the water laps against the earth.

The journal feels strange in my hand—a gift for normal people with normal thoughts. But I’m learning to accept these small kindnesses.

Willow turns as I approach, her smile lighting up her face. The sight still hits me like a physical force. Six months of freedom, and I still can’t believe she chose this life with me.

“Hey, you,” she says, reaching for my hand.

Instead of taking it, I pull her to me, one arm snaking around her waist. I kiss her deeply, tasting salt on her lips from the ocean spray. Her body melts against mine, familiar and perfect. When we break apart, her eyes are shining.

“What was that for?” she asks.

“Do I need a reason?”

She laughs, her fingers trailing along my jawline. “No. Never.”

I hold up the leather journal between us. “Your mom gave me this. For my thoughts.”

Willow takes it, running her fingers over the embossed compass rose. “It’s beautiful.”

“Why would she give me something like this?” The question comes out more vulnerable than I intended.

“Because she sees you,” Willow says simply. “Not just what you’ve done, but who you are. Who you’re becoming.”

I look back toward the veranda, where Anna sits, watching the horizon. She gives us privacy while staying within view. She raises her glass slightly when she catches my eye.

“I never thought I’d have this,” I admit. “A family.”

“Me neither.” Willow leans against my chest, facing the endless blue where the ocean meets the sky. “I was so busy hiding parts of myself that I never thought I’d find someone who understood me like you do. I had my mom, but I knew she wouldn’t understand, not like you do.”

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