Page 15 of The Price of My Sins

The room felt heavier after my words, but not out of anger. The room was heavy with truth.

She swallowed hard, then finally spoke. Her voice was quieter than I expected. “I never played games with your feelings ’cause no matter the situation, it was always you, Bo. I know it’s fucked up how we started… but it’s complicated.” She sighed, going silent again.

“I heard that before, Olivia, and I still don’t understand. What? That nigga holding some shit over your head or some shit?”

Her silence continued before she looked up at me as if she was ready to spill her soul, but she shut down again. I shook my head before standing up to put my plate in the sink. I left the kitchen and headed up to my room to shower. I refused to let Olivia continue to play with my heart.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with an unforgiving hum, flickering every few seconds like they were teasing me, as I laid on my teeny bed that felt like concrete.Lord knows I was getting older, and I couldn’t take it anymore.

At fifty-three, I was tired. A few days had passed since my birthday, and I was feeling down. For the first time in twenty years, I spent my birthday without my son. The whole jail was on lockdown due to some bitch causing a riot over some dumb shit; something about commissary and a stolen honey bun. Now we were stuck in our cells twenty-three hours a day, with no yard time, no visits, no nothing but these walls and our thoughts.

I didn’t need to be stuck in my cell for my mind to wander—wandering is all my mind did. My past and what I did to put me in this hellhole played in my head like a bad movie every day, every second. Did I regret it? Hell no. I’d gladly do it all over again if I had to. As a mother, you are supposed to protect your children.

I love Boris—God knows I love my son—and more than anything, I wanted my baby to be free. However, he was harboring demons that didn’t belong to him, demons that I couldn’t control. That alone made me regret the day I ever laid eyes on Henry Whitmore.

When we first got together, things were real sweet. He had charm, knew how to say the right things, and how to make a girl feel seen. I thought I hit the jackpot; a man with ambition and status, and who was attentive, making me feel like I was somebody. But the minute I became his wife, the mask slipped.

He got possessive and jealous over nothing. If I went out with my friends, he had an attitude. If I wore something that showed too much skin, we argued. He started keeping tabs on where I was, who I was with, and how long I’d be gone. At first, it was subtle: a comment here or a silent glare there. But then he started isolating me, making me feel guilty for spending time with my own blood, as if he was the only one I needed. And when I pushed back, that’s when the abuse started.

First, it was words—sharp, cruel things meant to shrink me down. He’d cut me with his tongue and dress it up as love. Then the words turned to hands. Not all at once, though. No, Henry was too smart for that. It started with grabbing my wrists too hard or a shove when he was angry. The slapping that he swore was a “mistake” came next, and before I knew it, I was walking on eggshells in my own damn home, hiding bruises under makeup and long sleeves. I began to make excuses for a man who promised to love me before he started to break me a little more each day.

However, the worst part wasn’t any of that. Boris witnessing it all damaged him and me. He saw more than I wanted him to, and even when I tried to protect him from it, he heard the yelling, the crashes, and the silence that came after.

Now, watching him carry that pain like it’s his job to fix what I survived guts me. I never wanted that for him. I didn’t want my son to learn about love through violence. I didn’t want him to think protecting meant sacrificing your soul.

Long before Henry ever laid a hand on me, I knew what abuse looked like. I grew up with it in my living room. My fatherhad a voice like thunder and fists that cracked the air before they landed. My mother used to flinch before he even touched her like her body already knew what was coming. Some nights, I’d hide in the closet with a pillow pressed to my ears while dishes shattered, and my mama begged under her breath. Other nights, I’d stare at the ceiling, promising myself that I’d never be like her. I’d vowed to never let a man put his hands on me and that I’d run before it ever got that far. But I didn’t. Those scars don’t magically heal because you wish them to. They stayed buried and waited, and when Henry came along, he didn’t come with fists. He showed up with flowers, promises, and a smile that felt like safety.

Until it didn’t. Until it wasn’t.

Even then—even when I knew better—something inside me stayed. The little girl in me still thought love was supposed to hurt. I still believed that control was protection and that silence was strength. So, when the abuse started, I told myself it wasn’t that bad and that he just needed time. I was convinced I could fix it—fix him. However, in the process, I broke myself, bit by bit and day by day. Quietly, though, just like my mama did. Never did I think I would repeat the cycle.

I was snapped out of my thoughts when my cellmate, Tiny, came strolling into the cell like she owned it. Her head was wrapped, her commissary bag swinging from her arm, and a smirk on her face like the whole damn world amused her.

“Girl, that lockdown was crazy,” she said, flopping down on her bunk with a dramatic sigh. “I was ’bout to lose my damn mind. I couldn’t wait to call my kids. Their daddy’s still on some bullshit, per usual. I swear… that’s what happens when you got some bomb-ass pussy… they lose all sense.” She let out a loud cackle, proud of herself like she’d just delivered a stand-up routine.

I rolled my eyes, half-smiling despite myself. “Tiny, you got three baby daddies. You telling me all three are acting up at the same time?”

“Hell yeah!” she said without missing a beat, digging through her bag. “One got the nerve to be in his feelings ’cause I ain’t wrote him in county. Like, boy… we both locked up. I ain’t no pen pal. The other one talking ’bout he need time to find himself’. And the last one… let’s just call him Ghost. But that’s a story for another day.”

I shook my head, laughing quietly. “You stay in some mess.”

Tiny was thirty-six, mixed with Puerto Rican and Black, but took to her African roots—her words, not mine. We had gotten tight over the years. She came in two years ago on an outstanding warrant for missing a court appearance, for boosting clothes at some high-end clothing store. She said she had a gift for numbers and a weakness for Gucci. Her mouth was slick, her nails stayed done, and she could read a bitch down like a preacher on Sunday. But under all that attitude was a heart of gold. She reminded me of myself back in my younger days: sharp-tongued, quick with a joke, but carrying enough pain to fill up two lifetimes.

I looked down at the picture in my hand. It was one Bo had just sent me. He was sitting in his office at the gun range, posture calm but eyes alert, like he was waiting for a storm to hit. He looked so handsome—so grown. He still had that same serious face he had as a little boy when he was trying to be brave.

“Every day,” I whispered.

Tiny glanced over, seeing the picture in my hand. “That your son?”

“Yeah,” I said softly. “Boris.”

“He’s handsome. Is he single? I’m going to need a stepdaddy for my kids when I get out.” She took the picture out of my hand and stared at it with lust in her eyes.

I snatched it back and cackled. “Get out of here. You won’t be making my baby, baby daddy number four. And he is taken.”

“Baby, my ass. That man is far from a baby. And fine as hell! She is one lucky lady, his girlfriend. They got kids?”

I paused, smiling softly to myself. “No. But I’ve been having dreams about fish.”

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