I met Brandon through an inmate pen pal program. His name has been changed, though the story he shared remains as he told it.

From the beginning, I explained who I was and why I was writing. I told him that I was a researcher and that my interest was to listen as part of my work, not to intervene in his sentence or offer promises that could not be kept. He responded without hesitation and wrote back that no one had ever asked to hear his story without trying to correct it, judge it, or turn it into something more manageable.

His first letter arrived folded several times, the paper worn thin along the creases. The handwriting was careful, maybe even cautious, as if he had learned to slow himself down when putting words on the page.

He did not begin with the crimes that led to a life sentence without parole. Instead, he moved back into childhood, describing a home that never quite settled into routine. His mother struggled with addiction for as long as he could remember. Some days she disappeared. Other days, she was there but unreachable, present in the room without being part of it. Meals came and went, and nights were unpredictable.

A sense of safety never really stayed long enough to feel familiar. His father was mostly absent from his childhood, appearing only occasionally and without offering much in the way of protection or direction.

As the letters continued, certain details returned again and again, sometimes in slightly different ways. Brandon’s childhood did not unfold through dramatic moments that demanded attention. It unfolded quietly, through long stretches where no one seemed to be watching closely.

No one noticed when he became more withdrawn. No one asked where he went after school or how he learned to deal with fear and hunger on his own. When he did reach........

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