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As I walked down the hallway of the prison, the familiar clang of metal doors echoed around me. The guards gave me small smiles as I passed, just as they always had. I'd been coming here since I was a baby, sitting on my auntie's knee, confused but certain that this was just how things were with Dad. They knew me here. They'd watched me grow up through these weekly visits, always trying to make this place a little easier, a little warmer.
But today, it all felt heavier somehow, like every step took a little more out of me. I had come looking for something I couldn't even name, hoping that maybe, in Dad's quiet wisdom, I'd find a way to make sense of the mess in my mind.
As I stepped into the visitation room, I spotted him right away, standing by the table, his face lighting up the second he saw me. "Blair!" he called, his voice filled with warmth. He opened his arms, and I moved into his hug, letting his steady presence ground me, even if just for a moment.
He held me tightly, his hand rubbing my back like he used to when I was a little girl. But then, as he pulled back, I saw his face shift, his eyes narrowing as he took in the faint bruise on my cheekbone. I felt my stomach twist; I'd tried to cover it up, but makeup can only hide so much.
"What happened here?" he asked, his voice low, worry and something sharper, more protective, flashing in his eyes.
"Oh," I stammered, trying to sound casual, "I, uh... I fell down the stairs. It's nothing."
He raised an eyebrow, the skepticism clear in his face. "Blair, you're clumsy sometimes, sure, but a bruise like that...? What really happened?"
I forced a smile, shrugging like it was no big deal. "It was just an accident, I swear. You know how I am—always tripping over my own feet."
Dad watched me closely, his eyes searching mine, clearly not buying it. I could see him piecing things together, that flicker of protectiveness sharpening, even as he nodded slowly, deciding not to push—at least not yet.
As we sat down, I could feel the weight of his unspoken questions, and my heart raced as I tried to keep my face neutral. Finally, after a long pause, he broke the silence, his voice gentle but probing.
"You know you can talk to me about anything, right?" he said softly. "Whatever it is, Blair, I'm here."
My throat tightened, my mind scrambling to figure out how much I wanted to tell him. I'd come here for clarity, hoping maybe he'd have some answer that would ease the doubt gnawing at me. But how much could I really say? How much was safe to admit, even to him?
"I know, Dad," I murmured, trying to smile. "And that's why I came. I just... I need some advice."
He looked at me intently, his expression softening as he leaned forward. "Alright, then. What's going on?"
The words stuck in my throat, but I forced myself to start. "I... I guess I just don't know how to tell what's real, sometimes. Like, in relationships. Sometimes, people act like they care, but then... things happen that don't feel right." My heart pounded as I tried to keep my voice light, to make my words sound casual, like I was just talking about vague "life stuff" and not the turmoil churning inside me.
Dad's face grew serious, his eyes never leaving mine. "Blair, love shouldn't make you feel confused or afraid. It's supposed to lift you up, make you feel safe. When someone loves you, you don't have to doubt their intentions."
The doubts had been creeping up on me for a while, like shadows I couldn't shake, but I hadn't been able to pin them down. They started as small things, the kinds of moments I could easily explain away—offhand comments Connor would make that stung, even if he laughed them off as jokes. Or the way he'd sometimes ignore my messages, going silent for hours and then act like it was no big deal, like I was being too sensitive for caring. I'd ask him about it, and he'd sigh, roll his eyes, and make me feel like I was the one overreacting, like I was always asking too much of him.
Then there were the times he'd snap at me, his face darkening, voice cold as he'd say something that cut deep. He'd say it was my fault for "pushing him" when I asked too many questions, or for being "clingy" when I wanted to spend time with him. He made me feel like I was always doing something wrong, like I was the problem. But afterward, he'd pull me close, tell me he was sorry, that he didn't mean it, that he just had a "bad day" or that I was overthinking things. And somehow, every time, I'd find myself apologizing to him, even when I couldn't figure out what I'd done wrong.
But the bruise on my cheek wasn't something I could just ignore. He'd pushed me. It wasn't an accident, no matter how much he'd tried to convince me afterward. He'd said I'd been yelling at him, that I hadn't given him space to explain, that it was all "just in the heat of the moment." I kept telling myself he hadn't meant it, that it wouldn't happen again, but the doubt had already settled in, filling my mind with questions I was too afraid to answer.
"People make mistakes, right?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Sometimes they mess up, but that doesn't mean they don't care, right?"
Dad looked at me, his eyes filled with quiet understanding, and took my hand in his, his grip gentle but steady. "Everyone makes mistakes, Blair. But love... real love? It doesn't make you feel this way. Love doesn't hurt. And when someone does mess up, they don't make you doubt yourself. They don't make you question if you're the one to blame."
His words hit harder than I'd expected, cutting through the excuses I'd built up around myself. For a moment, I wanted to argue, to insist that Connor was different, that he didn't mean to hurt me, that maybe I was overreacting. But hearing Dad say it so plainly made everything feel clearer. He'd known I wasn't being honest about the bruise, he could see the doubt in my face, and yet he wasn't pushing me. Instead, he was giving me space to trust myself.
He squeezed my hand, his voice soft but strong. "Blair, if something doesn't feel right, if you're questioning yourself or your worth because of how someone treats you... you don't have to ignore that. You deserve someone who makes you feel valued, safe, loved. Every single day."
I felt a lump rise in my throat, his words wrapping around me like armor. The doubts had been screaming at me for weeks, but I hadn't wanted to face them, hadn't wanted to accept that maybe they were right. That maybe Connor wasn't giving me what I deserved.
As Dad watched me, his expression both calm and full of love, I realized he'd given me what I hadn't even known I needed: permission to listen to myself. To acknowledge that the bruises, the silent treatments, the words that left scars—they weren't things I had to excuse. They were red flags, warnings that I'd been too scared to face.
When I finally stood up to leave, Dad pulled me into another hug, his hand gently rubbing my back. "Whatever you decide, Blair, just know that I'm here for you. You're stronger than you think. And you deserve nothing less than real, steady love."
The words sank deep, grounding me as I walked back through the prison corridors. For the first time in weeks, maybe even months, I felt like I could breathe. Dad had given me the strength to trust myself, to believe that my doubts weren't something I had to push away.
And as I stepped outside, I knew that whatever came next, I was ready to start listening to the voice I'd been too afraid to hear.
