“Sweetie, please,” Frank practically begged, his hand print staining the glass separating you two, “I need you. I’m miserable and lonely. You know I don’t deserve this.” Eyeing you, his fist clenched the fabric of his pant leg, waiting for your answer.

You could hear the other conversations in the visitation booths, hearing the woman cry, and the men laugh. You almost feel nothing staring into your father’s eyes, knowing full well he deserved this.

He claimed he’s fine, he’s not mental, he’s not crazy. He’s perfectly fine. But you knew him. You knew how controlling he is, and manipulating. He doesn’t take other wise for an answer.

“Sweetie, look at me, please,” he murmured, holding the telephone to his ear. “You know I love you, right? Just… believe me. I’m better now.”