Chapter 6 - THE FINAL VISITATIONTwo weeks later, I made one final trip.
The state correctional facility sat stark and cold against the grey sky of upstate New York.
I sat in a private, glass-partitioned visitation room, wearing a simple beige cashmere sweater, holding my briefcase on my lap.
The heavy iron door on the opposite side opened with a loud, metallic clank.
A guard escorted Mason inside.
I barely recognized him.
The confident, arrogant man who used to parade around in custom tuxedos was completely gone. Mason wore an ill-fitting blue jumpsuit. His hair was shaved short, his face thin, hollow, and pale, his eyes darting around the room with severe anxiety.
He sat down on the steel stool opposite the glass, slowly picking up the black telephone receiver.
I picked up my receiver.
“Clara...” Mason’s voice came through the speaker, scratchy, weak, and broken. “You came.”
“I came to bring you these,” I said, sliding a envelope under the glass slot.
Mason looked down at the document. “What is it?”
“The final termination deed of your parental rights,” I said smoothly. “Signed by the state judge yesterday. You no longer have any legal, financial, or personal connection to Emma.”
Mason stared at the paper, tears pooling in his bloodshot eyes, dropping onto his orange jumpsuit.
“Clara... please,” Mason wept quietly, pressing his forehead against the thick glass. “I made a terrible mistake. Every night in this cell, I think about what I lost. I lost you. I lost my daughter. I lost my life.”
“You didn't lose them by mistake, Mason,” I said softly, looking him dead in the eye. “You traded them. You traded a wife who supported you for six years and a newborn daughter who needed a father for a fake mistress and a shell company that wasn't even real.”
“Is... is Vanessa really going away for fourteen years?” Mason asked, his voice trembling with bitter betrayal.
“Fourteen years for her, eighteen for you,” I answered. “And your mother is living in a small studio apartment in Syracuse.”
Mason closed his eyes, a broken, pathetic sob escaping his lips. “I have nothing left. Nothing.”
“You have eighteen years to think about what happens when you mistake a woman’s kindness for weakness,” I said, standing up from my chair.
“Clara... wait!” Mason shouted into the phone, slamming his hand against the glass. “Can I... can I see a picture of her? Just one picture of Emma?”
I stopped, looking down at him.
I reached into my bag, pulled out a small, high-resolution photograph of six-month-old Emma, sitting in her executive chair at Cardenas Tower, wearing a tiny gold crown headband, smiling brightly at the camera.
I pressed the photograph against the glass for three seconds.
Mason stared at his daughter’s beautiful face—a child who had inherited my father’s bright, sharp hazel eyes and my smile. Tears poured down his hollow cheeks as he reached out to touch the glass, but his fingers met only cold, unbreakable barrier.
I pulled the photo back, sliding it into my purse.
May you like
“She’s going to grow up knowing her grandfather built an empire for her,” I said softly. “And she will never even know your name.”
I hung up the phone, turned around, and walked out of the visitation room, leaving Mason’s pathetic wails ringing behind the heavy iron doors.
