first, my concern was only an act.
Over time, though, it became genuine.
I started reading through his case documents late into the night. Some signatures were absent. Dates didn’t match. One witness had left the state soon after giving testimony.
While everyone around us labeled Jonah a thief, I waited outside courthouses with folders in my arms, begging lawyers to take another look at his case.
Jonah never asked what made me keep trying.
By then, I was already in love with him.
Three years after our prison wedding,
the truth came out. His cousin had moved the charity’s money, copied Jonah’s signature, and let him carry the blame.
When Jonah walked free, I thought he would hurry into my arms. Instead, his face grew tense, as if being released had wounded him somehow.
Then he took my hand and murmured, “Come home with me.”
For a whole week, I thought our hardest days were finally over.
Then, on the eighth evening, Jonah placed a black box on the kitchen table.
“What is that?” I asked.
“It’s my turn
