Phone Calls from Prison

The sound of his voice caused my throat to suddenly tighten, constricting my attempt to speak into the phone.  I also felt something ripping and tearing deep within my heart. How can that beautiful voice saying “Mum” belong to my son and be coming from within prison walls?

So I mustered up my bravery and inhaled a long deep breath,  “I love you” was my immediate response into the phone.  There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but all I really wanted to tell him was that I love him and that I forgive him. I told my son that we will get through this, and that his dad, sister and brother also love him.

We have continued our weekly routine of a single, short phone conversation – chatting about lots of things, but not really anything in particular.  I am now accustomed to hearing the background ‘noise of prison’ it sort of sounds like an ‘man version’ of a school playground!

I am also accustomed to the raw sadness I feel at the end of those brief phone calls – thinking that another seven days will pass before I hear his voice again. His voice sounds exactly the same as it always has – almost tricking me to believe that he is just down the road at a friends house.

After nearly four months of remand, whereby my daily existence has been fuelled mainly by sadness and grief – his case will go to court today for a bail application and subsequent rehabilitation placement.  If the judge deems it appropriate, my son may be transferred to a ‘transitional facility ‘ and commence his journey of rehabilitation. I have not seen my son for five months – but I cannot allow myself to become too hopeful upon the outcome of today.

One thought on “Phone Calls from Prison

  1. It’s almost midnight here in the UK – when you are hearing the result of your son’s bail application I’ll be asleep, but I’ll wake up hoping he was successful. I know the well-wishes of a stranger will make no difference to you; whoever is with you, you will feel alone at that instant when your son’s future is announced, but I wanted to say it anyway.
    I’ve been in a similar position, but I can’t pretend to know how it feels for you. I only know you’re going through a horrible, horrible time, and I feel for you.
    I wish good luck and a successful outcome to you, your son, and your family.


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