I spoke to Renee and Cynthia yesterday. Renee told me about Uncle Bobby being in the hospital. He’s been there for about a week or longer. It sounds serious. They say he has dementia and suffered a stroke. He’s on a feeding tube and can no longer talk or write. Apparently, he hasn’t been able to speak for some time now. My best guess is that he’s around 69 years old.

Cynthia said that when she visits, you have to ask him questions that can be answered with a simple nod or shake of his head. She’s been visiting him regularly, although his wife seems to be making things difficult for the family. She doesn’t allow them to get updates or much information about him. Cynthia thinks it may be because of some bad interactions between his daughter Dee and his wife, but from what I gathered, she feels there’s more to it.

I never met his wife. I know they’ve been together for quite a while. I believe she’s the woman he once told me he was going to marry before asking me to be his best man.

That request always made me feel a little odd because I’m not sure why he asked me. We never had much of a personal relationship.

I remember sitting at Big Ma’s funeral when he pulled out his phone to show me explicit pictures of women he had been involved with. Maybe he was trying to bond with me, but the timing couldn’t have been worse—especially for something like that.

I’ve always had mixed feelings about him, and those feelings kept me from trying to build a relationship.

He was always considered the black sheep of the family. My mom rarely had anything good to say about him. It was pretty much the same with Renee, Aunt Mattie, Cynthia, Big James, James, April, Jerwell, and his kids. Aunt Mary and Big Ma seemed to have a soft spot for him. Granddad always seemed to hold onto hope.

So with all of that, my opinion of him was naturally influenced. The people who knew him best didn’t trust him, and many of them felt deeply hurt by him.

At the end of my call with Renee, I suggested that she go see him. I don’t want to admit it, but there’s a good chance he’s nearing the end of his life.

I’m almost always on the side of forgiveness. Besides, he can’t talk now, so there’s very little he could do to upset her.

I wasn’t ready for her response.

“Bobby took my virginity.”

I’m not sure I’d ever been told that before. Maybe I had, and I buried it somewhere deep inside.

That’s exactly what I wanted to do this time.

The thirty-second warning on the phone sounded before I had time to process what she’d said. There wasn’t enough time to change the direction of the conversation. I told her I was sorry that had happened to her—or at least I hope I did. I was so caught off guard that I felt paralyzed in the moment.

I wish the conversation had ended on a better note.

The call ended, and I walked down the long, dingy hallway, not knowing how to process everything I’d just heard.

Every prison has a place where men walk after receiving terrible news. Countless men have walked these same halls carrying the weight of loss, tragedy, and regret.

It feels awful.

I always feel helpless, angry, and outraged. I can’t even find a word strong enough to describe it.

I hate that phone.

It delivers so much pain that maybe it deserves a different name:

**The Chief Depressor.**

I should be out there helping, comforting, and supporting my family. Instead, I’m here—unable to do any of those things.

I’m a man, yet prison has a way of making you feel like a helpless little boy.

I wish I could be there to say my goodbyes.

If I’m being honest, I don’t expect I’ll ever see Uncle Bobby again.

They die.

They’re all gone.

His sisters. Mom. Aunt Mattie. Aunt Mary. Big Ma. Aunt Ruby. Lisa.

My friends Stephanie, Jen, Amanda, Becky…

Gone.

And there are more.

Where was I?

Here.

I feel like I let every one of them down.

And it’s not over. Not even close.

I made mistakes.

I have regrets.