I don't know why I am here. But, I do know that the cool metal of the folding chair is digging into my shoulder blades. I know that my foot keeps sticking to some substance on the floor. I know that every time I hear the rustle of chains, I wince, and my heart starts beating a little faster. One thing is for sure, though. I don't know why I am here.

Mom told me that it would be good for me to get out of the house. “I’ll be with you the whole time,” she had said. Really, I think she just wanted to see him without having to admit it. Now, she sits beside me, with too much makeup on and her pin-straight auburn hair covering both shoulders, the way she wears it when she and Dad used to go out to dinner. It’s how she wore it to the hearing, too. Oh, the irony.

Mental incompetence. That’s what our lawyer is going to argue for his defense. I laughed when I heard this, seeing how the pure idea is hilarious. It’s even funnier that he thinks my father is incompetent. He is perfectly competent. He knew exactly what he was doing. He shouldn’t be able to walk free.

The official charge was murder with a deadly weapon, which is an extremely broad generalization. He pulled a gun on our neighbor and ended up killing him with one shot to the head. All over 200 measly dollars. Seems pretty petty in the long run if you ask me. The worst part is, I don't even think he is remorseful about it. That's the angle that the lawyer is playing: that he didn't realize what he was doing.

Yeah, okay.

If I’m perfectly honest with myself, I am scared. I don't want to see the light stubble that always surrounds his mouth, no matter how much or at what time he shaves. I don't want to see his cold, ice blue eyes that I only just recently realized have a malicious glint to them. Perhaps that is what scares me so much: I’ve noticed all of these details about him that I refused to realize before.

I look at the clock that is hanging on the opposite wall, slightly skewed on the white brick. The minute hand is aligned with the hour hand at the three, and with each passing second, I am only becoming more and more nervous. My heart is pounding against my ribs, and to that rhythm, my eyes flick back and forth to the other families sitting with the people in bright orange jumpsuits. There is an older woman sitting with who I assume to be her husband, since they both have the same mop of graying hair. To my right is a woman with a toddler balanced on her leg, talking with another man who watches the pair fondly. When my mom realizes what I am doing, she places her hand on my leg. I pull it away.

How does that work? How can these people visit so calmly with the ones who put them through so much pain? While they are having a momentous reunion, I am sitting here barely keeping it together, and my ‘loved one’ hasn't even shown up yet. How will I be able to get through an entire conversation with the man I once looked up to with extreme admiration? The man that once pushed me on the swing set, and let me paint his toenails an ugly green when I got a set of nail polish for Christmas. The man that threw the baseball with me in the backyard, and then put my hair in a bun for dance class. Now, everything is different. No matter how much my mom refuses to admit it, he was leading a double life. The one with us, and the one with them.

I look at the clock again. 3:17. Only two minutes have passed, but it feels like a lifetime has gone by. Not that I’m complaining, of course. I’d rather sit here for eternity than see him for even a second.

I finally make up my mind and grasp the handles of my bag tighter in my hand. Taking a deep breath, I push the chair back, the metal screeching in protest against the linoleum. Some heads turn, and I can feel their stares burning into the back of my skull, but I keep cleaning up my things. My mom asks me what I am doing, but I ignore her, putting my bag over my shoulder, and sliding the chair back into place. Just as I am about to walk past the security officer guarding the door, who has the power to release me from the confines of the visiting room, a buzz echoes through the hall. I stop in my tracks and look towards the door, where a new prisoner is standing in shackles and clad in the same orange jumpsuit that will soon haunt my dreams.

His mouth turns up into a smile, that same light stubble surrounding his mouth, and those cold, ice blue eyes. The guards walk him over to the table that I had just abandoned. I visibly gulp, and I raise a shaking hand in a wave sort of fashion. My voice quivers, “H-hey, Dad.”