The Space Between: The First Visit

I remember the drive more than the place.

It was dark. Rain hit the windshield so hard it felt like the road kept disappearing in front of us. My twin brother and I sat in the backseat, quiet in that way kids get when they’re scared but don’t have the words for it.

This was the first time we were going to see our dad in prison.
We weren’t old enough to understand where we were actually going.

That was all that mattered to us.
We just wanted to see our dad.

My mom was legally blind.
The rain made it worse.

Streetlights smeared into long streaks of light. She leaned forward over the steering wheel, straining to see. Every time the tires cut through standing water, my stomach tightened. I remember gripping the seat, waiting for something bad to happen, knowing there was nothing we could do if it did.

We didn’t talk.

When we got there, we stood outside before we were allowed in. Cold rain soaked through our shoes and into our socks. Our pants clung to our legs. We shifted our weight back and forth, arms tucked tight against our sides, waiting.

No one told us how long it would be.
We didn’t ask.

I had imagined this moment differently.
I thought seeing him would feel bigger. Safer. Like something would make sense again.

Instead, it felt flat.
Lackluster.

We didn’t get to go home with him.
That part wasn’t explained.

Inside, we sat where we were told. The chairs were cold. Our feet didn’t touch the floor, so they swung and scraped against the metal bar underneath. Adults moved around us like this was routine, like this was just another stop on the way somewhere else.

At some point, my mom took my dad into the bathroom.

My brother and I stayed behind.

We sat side by side, silent, staring at the floor. No one explained where they went. No one told us why or how long they’d be gone. We just waited, trying to understand what we were supposed to be doing.

When they came back out, they were laughing.

Not quietly. Not nervously.
Laughing like something normal had just happened.

We didn’t laugh.
We didn’t ask.

We watched them, confused by how something secret could happen right next to us without a single word. How the room could feel so heavy and so light at the same time.

I remember thinking this must be how things work.
Adults disappear.
They come back changed.
Kids stay where they are.

The drive home was worse.

The rain hadn’t stopped. Headlights bent and broke across the windshield. At some point, my mom drifted into the wrong lane. Horns blared. She screamed — loud, panicked, unhinged — yanking the wheel back just in time.

My brother and I froze.

We sat in the backseat, shoulders pressed together, eating Cheez-Its from the box between us. The crunch was loud, sharp, steady. We ate them to drown out her screaming the same way the rain drowned out the road. Crunch after crunch, something predictable to hold onto while everything else felt out of control.

Our protector wasn’t coming home with us.

No one asked if we were okay.
No one pulled over.

Eventually, the road straightened out.
We made it home.

That’s what mattered.

Years later, I would learn there’s a name for moments like that — The Space Between.

It would take years before I understood how much you learn in moments like that — how to stay quiet, how to lower your expectations, how to survive disappointment without letting it show.

At the time, it was just life.