I opened my grandson’s bedroom window wide. It overlooked a patchwork of neighbouring houses. Beyond them, trees swayed in the blustery evening, the wind restless and full of movement. It was the perfect moment.
Grasping Oakley’s hand, I stood close and whispered, ‘When you feel the cool breeze against your cheeks, that’s the time to shout. The wind will carry your message past the gardens and along the roads before reaching Daddy’s cell.’
Hope glistened in Oakley’s eyes. He leaned his head out, tilting his face towards the grey sky, and waited. Then, from deep within his little chest, he bellowed, ‘I love you, Daddy. I love you lots and lots and lots.’
Across the road, curtains twitched, but I didn’t care. The neighbours could think whatever they wanted. Easing the ache in Oakley’s heart was all that mattered.
Earlier that morning, I’d sat in the gallery at the Crown Court. I glared at the thick-set officers who led my son down to the holding cells after his sentencing. It felt like watching him disappear underwater.
Later, with a tight knot in my stomach, I picked Oakley up from school. He bounced beside me, beaming as he shared his full day. Every smile made it harder to say the words waiting inside me. Soon, I would have to empty his world again. A year ago, his mother’s alcoholism had torn their family apart.
We were sitting at the dining table. Oakley was whirring a toy car across the stained tablecloth while I toyed with different ways to convey that his daddy wasn’t coming home.
‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ I eventually said, swallowing the lump in my throat.
Oakley gazed at me with concern. ‘Is it bad, Nanna? You look sad.’
I nodded.
‘Is it Daddy?’
I nodded again. ‘Oakley, your daddy has made a big mistake. He won’t be home for a long, long time.’
‘Will he be back for Christmas?’ he asked, spinning the car wheel.
I shook my head.
‘How old will I be when he comes home?’
Tears threatened to spill as I did the math. ‘Seven. Nearly eight.’
Oakley counted his fingers. ‘That’s four Christmases!’
‘You’re right,’ I mumbled.
‘Can I see him?’
‘Not yet. Daddy needs to settle in his new place.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Prison,’ I breathed, holding back my tears.
His mouth gaped open. ‘That’s scary. What did he do that was so bad?’ He stared at his toy as if it held the answers. ‘Did he take someone’s car?’
I looked at his innocent face and nodded slowly. This was a way out. Something he could understand. I mean, how do you explain possession of drugs to a four-year-old child?
‘Didn’t Daddy give it back?’
‘No. He damaged it,’ I lied.
‘The car man can buy another one. I can’t buy another daddy.’
A sharp pain jabbed my chest. There was nothing normal about witnessing my grandson try to understand why his daddy couldn’t come home. There was nothing normal about answering questions no child should have to ask. And nothing normal about missing my son, who was still alive, while I fumed over his actions that put him behind bars.
‘I wanna speak to him.’ Oakley’s voice cracked.
‘We can’t call. Daddy will call us, but it might take a few days. You can send him a drawing or some of your writing.’
‘I wanna speak to Daddy, now!’ he cried.
‘We’ll have to reach him on the whisper waves,’ I blurted in desperation. ‘If we catch the wind right, you can shout, and the message will reach him.’
And somehow, he believed me.
~
The first time we visited my son in prison, Oakley insisted on wearing a pin-striped suit he’d spotted at a car boot sale. The sleeves hung over his wrists, and the trouser legs bunched over his trainers. I persuaded him to wear a belt to stop him from tripping. Beneath the jacket, he wore his school shirt and frayed tie.
The queue snaked around the towering prison walls. Inch by inch, we crawled forward. Restless with waiting, children drifted from their mothers’ sides, skipping, chasing one another, and giggling loudly. Oakley latched onto a confident-looking boy about his age. They chatted as if they’d known each other forever.
As Oakley walked through the security detector, officers remarked on his outfit, saying they’d never seen such a smartly dressed kid before. In that moment, he seemed to grow taller.
He hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and scanned the visitors’ hall for his dad. The room was vast. Huddles of families sat on brightly coloured chairs that surrounded low plastic tables, piled high with snacks purchased from the kitchenette. Posters warning visitors not to pass drugs dotted the walls. Officers stood strategically around the room. Their radios created a constant, annoying buzz.
At the far back, I noticed my son waving his arms like someone reaching for a lifeline.
‘Oakley, your dad’s over there,’ I said, placing a hand on his shoulder to push him in the right direction.
My heart melted at the sight of them together.
‘Hey, kiddo, you look sharp. And you’ve grown,’ my son said, finally holding Oakley at arm’s length. ‘What’s Nanna been feeding you on?’
Oakley grinned as if his dad had soaked him in sunshine.
He hugged me next. That’s when I noticed the tightness in his shoulders and how he flinched when the patrolling officers walked past.
Oakley filled the time with his football games, telling us about every goal he’d scored and how his coach had made him captain. He shared the titles of the books he’d read, explaining why he liked the characters. It was as if he’d stored stacks full of moments for his dad.
When Oakley’s friend came to our table, asking if he could join him in the play area, my son hesitated before letting him go.
‘Sure. Go play for a bit. It’ll give me and Nanna a chance to catch up.’
‘Are you alright?’ I asked. ‘You don’t seem yourself. Are the staff treating you well?’
‘Yeah, I’m good. I mean it ain’t the Ritz.’ His voice sounded flat, exhausted.
‘What’s your cellmate like?’
‘He’s cool, but he’ll be out soon.’ He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘Actually, Mum, it’s crap. Dire. I shouldn’t have got involved. Shouldn’t have done what I did. Nothing is worth the grief I’ve caused my boy. You. Everyone.’
I reached for his hand. ‘You’ve got to stay strong. Keep busy. Read. Go to the gym. Make sure you get fresh air every day. Oakley needs you. I told him that the wind carries messages, so every night he shouts out that he loves you loads.’
When Oakley returned, I watched as my son pulled him onto the chair beside him.
‘Hey Kiddo,’ he said softly. ‘I forgot to tell you I got all your messages.’
‘Even when it wasn’t really windy?’ Oakley’s voice was high with excitement
‘Yup, every single one. I want you to know that I love you more than all the winds in the world.’
M.J. Whelan has written a novel about the hidden impact of parental imprisonment and the kinship carers who care for the children left behind. SENTENCED is available for purchase here:
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sentenced-M-J-Whelan-ebook/dp/B0G5J96XV1
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