Chapter 8 - EVERY SUNDAY
Roman’s first letter arrived nine days after he surrendered.
Late.
I was furious.
Then Mrs. Bennett showed me the postmark.
He mailed it Sunday.
The prison mail room took four days.
Fine.
Technically he kept the promise.
The envelope was plain.
No DeLuca crest.
Good.
Rosie,
Prison coffee is worse than diner coffee.
I did not know that was possible.
I laughed.
Then:
You asked for no scary prison stories, so here is something scarier: I joined a financial accountability class and the instructor uses PowerPoint transitions.
I did not know what that meant.
Mrs. Bennett laughed for a full minute.
Roman wrote about books.
Bad television.
A man who beat him at chess.
A bird that landed outside the recreation fence every morning.
Nothing that made prison sound cool.
Good.
At the bottom:
No need to write back every time.
Go be eight.
Roman
I wrote back immediately.
YOUR LETTER WAS LATE.
Not his fault.
Still.
Every Sunday he wrote.
I kept them in a shoebox under my bed.
Not because they were secret.
Because children need places adults do not organize.
My ninth birthday came four months into his sentence.
Roman sent a card through approved mail.
No money.
No jewelry.
Inside:
NINE IS A TERRIBLE AGE.
I RECOMMEND TEN.
I wrote:
YOU ARE OLD. YOU SURVIVED.
He replied:
BARELY.
Good.
Mrs. Bennett became more than temporary during that year.
Judge Hart made her guardianship stable through the remainder of Roman’s sentence and reentry review.
She never asked me to call her Mom.
Good.
I called her Bennett at home sometimes just to annoy her.
She called me Mercer when I left socks on the stairs.
Pickle slept in my room.
School got easier.
The dance night stopped being the first thing everyone remembered about me.
Lily apologized.
Not dramatically.
One day at recess she said:
“My mom said I was mean.”
I looked at her.
“You were.”
She nodded.
“Sorry.”
“Okay.”
We did not become best friends.
Good.
Apologies do not require matching bracelets.
Principal Warren faced his own review.
The school family fund had not been stolen by him, but its oversight was sloppy.
Guardians signed broad certifications.
No one checked whether children actually received services.
Willow Creek changed the process.
Teachers could flag inconsistencies.
Guardians had to submit basic records.
Children were not named publicly as “beneficiaries” at events.
Good.
Mrs. Bennett said systems should not require an eight-year-old’s shoes to become evidence.
I did not fully understand.
I liked the sentence.
The trust audit ended.
Original 3.1 million.
Seven hundred thousand to Mom’s restitution fund.
About 1.3 million improperly spent or transferred under Deborah.
Roughly eight hundred thousand eventually recovered through asset seizures, insurance, settlements, and repayment agreements.
My trust stabilized above 1.6 million after fees and approved expenses.
I learned the number.
Then stopped caring daily.
Independent trustee paid school costs.
Therapy.
Health insurance.
Normal things.
No one bought me a pony.
Unfair.
Roman’s own forfeiture did not touch my trust.
Important.
He had no control over it.
Also important.
Deborah kept writing once a month.
Not because court required.
Because I allowed.
Her letters got better.
At first:
I’m sorry.
I miss you.
Please forgive me.
Too much her.
Later:
I saw the first snow.
Do you still hate peas?
I hope the spelling bee went well.
Better.
I answered sometimes.
Not always.
She repaid money from wages and asset sales.
Slow.
Responsibility has payment plans sometimes.
Graham Pike pled guilty to fraud and conspiracy related to the trust scheme.
Carl Ames too.
Pike lost his law license.
Roman wrote:
Your mother would call that an administrative miracle.
I laughed.
Then summer came.
Roman had served ten months.
I visited him for the first time.
My choice.
Mrs. Bennett drove.
No black cars.
The visiting room was ugly.
Plastic chairs.
Vending machines.
Too much light.
Roman walked in wearing institutional khaki.
He looked smaller.
Not physically.
The room did not move around him.
No one lowered voices.
I liked that.
He stopped in front of me.
“Hi.”
“Your hair is worse.”
He touched it.
“This is government styling.”
I laughed.
Then hugged him.
My choice.
He hugged back.
Not too hard.
We talked for an hour.
School.
Pickle.
Letters.
Then I asked:
“Do you still have men?”
He understood.
“Some people still work for my legitimate companies.”
“No.”
I meant other men.
Old organization.
Roman took time.
“No crews under my command.”
“What happened?”
“Some left. Some were charged. Some work legitimate jobs now. Some joined other groups.”
“Bad groups?”
“Yes.”
“So you didn’t fix Mafia.”
He smiled.
“No.”
Good.
No magical city.
Then:
“What will you do when you get out?”
“Compliance monitor says I can return to limited ownership, not management, for a while.”
“That sounds boring.”
“It is devastating.”
I smiled.
“What about me?”
There.
His face changed.
“What about you?”
“Will you ask the judge again?”
He looked at Mrs. Bennett.
Then back.
“Only if you want me to.”
I had expected yes.
I did not know how I felt about the choice being mine.
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes.”
Immediate.
Good.
“But if you want to stay with Bennett, I will still be your uncle.”
I looked at her.
She pretended to study the vending machine.
Good.
“Can I have both?”
Roman’s face softened.
“That is a lawyer question.”
Annoying.
After the visit, Ms. Cho explained.
Guardianship could be structured.
Mrs. Bennett could remain an important adult without being legal guardian forever.
Roman could eventually petition after release.
Transitions could be slow.
I did not have to choose one person and erase another.
That helped.
The second visit happened two months later.
Last one before release.
Roman asked about the next Willow Creek dance.
I was nine now.
It happened every winter.
“Are you going?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
I shrugged.
Last one still lived in my body.
Doors.
Whispers.
Blue wristband.
Roman did not say we could make it better.
Good.
He only said:
“If you go and want me there, tell me.”
“What if you’re not allowed?”
“Then I will tell you before.”
Good.
No impossible promise.
Roman came home after serving the custodial portion of his sentence required under the judgment.
Mrs. Bennett and I did not meet him at a gate.
He said he did not want my first view of freedom to be a parking lot.
Good.
We met at the diner from our first ice cream.
He was already there.
Ten minutes early.
I looked at the booth.
“You came.”
Roman stood.
“I said I would.”
There.
Same.
Different.
We ate ice cream even though it was January.
Again.
Then he handed me one thing.
A folded sheet.
Not gift.
His reentry plan.
Housing.
Supervision.
Work restrictions.
Therapy.
Family-court evaluation schedule.
I stared.
“Why are you giving me homework?”
He smiled.
“Because if I ask to be your guardian, you should know what you are being asked to live with.”
Good.
I read the first page.
Then:
“Can I change things?”
He looked surprised.
“Like what?”
“No work calls during dinner.”
He nodded.
“Reasonable.”
“No men across the street at Mrs. Bennett’s.”
“Agreed unless court-approved threat—”
I glared.
He sighed.
“Agreed unless Bennett asks.”
Good.
“Pickle visits.”
“Absolutely not.”
I looked at him.
He lasted three seconds.
“Fine.”
Powerful men.
Trainable.
Then I wrote the last rule.
IF YOU ARE LATE, TEXT.
Roman stared.
“Anything else?”
I thought about the auditorium doors.
The three words on Mrs. Bennett’s phone.
“No.”
That one was enough.
Roman’s reentry evaluator also required regular counseling.
He hated that more than compliance meetings.
I found this hilarious.
“What do you talk about?”
“None of your business.”
“Mom?”
He looked at me.
“Sometimes.”
“Your dad?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Me?”
His expression changed.
“Yes.”
“What do you say?”
“That I am afraid of getting it wrong.”
That surprised me.
“You do get things wrong.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Then I added:
“But you say sorry now.”
Roman looked out the diner window.
“I’m practicing.”
Good.
Maybe adults are just children with more expensive mistakes.
During those months, Roman never asked me to defend him at school.
That mattered more than I knew at first.
A boy in fifth grade once said:
“Your uncle is a criminal.”
I went home furious.
Roman listened.
Then:
“He is not completely wrong.”
I stared.
“You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am.”
“Then say he’s wrong.”
“I can say he was trying to hurt you with something true.”
That stopped me.
Different.
“What do I say next time?”
“You can say nothing.”
“That’s boring.”
“Yes.”
“Or?”
“Tell him your family is none of his business.”
Better.
I used that one.
The letters also taught me something I had not expected.
A promise could survive being boring.
No grand entrances.
No expensive gifts.
No speeches.
Just envelopes.
Sunday after Sunday.
By spring, I stopped checking the mailbox in panic.
I checked because I expected him.
That was a different feeling.
May you like
Expectation without fear.
Maybe that was what safety was supposed to become.
