Chapter 10 - THE SILVER BRACELET AND THE VISITATION ROOM
Six months passed.
The Chicago winter gave way to a hesitant, muddy spring.
I sat in the sterile, fluorescent-lit waiting room of the Metropolitan Correctional Center. The air smelled of bleach and stale sweat.
I wasn't here because I missed him. I was here because the divorce papers required a final signature, and Anthony had refused to sign them by mail.
A heavy metal door buzzed and clanked open. A guard nodded at me.
“Table four, Mrs. DeLuca.”
“It’s just Marianne now,” I corrected him quietly.
I walked into the visitation room. It was a cavernous space filled with bolted-down tables and men in orange jumpsuits.
Anthony was sitting at table four.
He looked hollow. The gray in his hair had completely taken over, and his broad shoulders had slumped inward, as if the weight of his collapsed empire was physically crushing his spine.
I sat down across from him. I didn't smile. I didn't frown. I just placed the manila folder on the metal table between us.
“Sign them, Anthony,” I said.
He looked at the folder, but he didn't reach for the pen. Instead, he looked at my hands.
“You took your ring off,” he noted, his voice raspy.
“It wasn't mine anymore,” I said. “It belonged to the man you pretended to be.”
Anthony rubbed his jaw. “I saw the pictures of Emily’s wedding on Michael’s Facebook page. She looked beautiful.”
“She did.”
“You didn't invite me.”
“You uninvited yourself the day you pinned my flowers on Brianna.”
He winced, the memory clearly agonizing for him now that he had nothing else to distract him.
“I lost everything, Marianne,” he whispered, his eyes welling with tears. “The business. The houses. My reputation. Silvio’s crew took over the South Side. I’m doing twenty years.”
“I know,” I said, feeling no pity, only a dull, clinical acknowledgment of facts. “Sign the papers.”
Anthony reached into the pocket of his jumpsuit. Slowly, his hand shaking, he pulled out a small, tarnished silver bracelet.
It had a little charm on it—a tiny sailboat.
I recognized it immediately. It was the bracelet he had bought for Emily when she was seven, on a family trip to Lake Michigan. The trip before the business truly consumed him.
“The feds let me keep one personal item when I was processed,” he said, his voice breaking. “I didn't keep my watch. I didn't keep the pinky ring. I kept this.”
He pushed the bracelet across the table toward me.
“Give it to her. Please. Tell her... tell her I remember the lake. Tell her I’m sorry I forgot how to be that dad.”
I looked at the silver bracelet.
It was a piece of the man I used to love. The man who had cried when his daughter was born.
But a silver bracelet couldn't erase a lifetime of deceit.
“I’ll give it to her,” I said softly.
Anthony nodded, tears spilling down his cheeks. He picked up the pen and signed the divorce papers.
“Goodbye, Marianne,” he whispered.
I stood up, taking the folder and the bracelet.
“Goodbye, Anthony.”
I walked out of the prison and into the bright Chicago sunlight. I didn't look back.
When I got to my car, I placed the silver bracelet in my glove compartment. I would give it to Emily, not as a promise of his return, but as a reminder that she had once been loved purely, before the money poisoned him.
My phone buzzed. It was a text from Emily.
“Mom! Michael just got the promotion! We’re going out to celebrate. Meet us at the Italian place on 4th street? 7 PM?”
May you like
I smiled, typing back. “I wouldn't miss it for the world.”
I started the car and drove away, leaving Anthony DeLuca and his ghosts behind me.
