“Yeah, that’s when it first hit me,” Owen says. “That’s why I got so emotional. Now, with this new identity and the money, I can do whatever I want.”

“That’s right, you can,” I say, patting him on his back.

“Wow,” he mumbles to himself, looking down at the floor.

A wave of relief washes over me.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe this is what he needed all along to get that excitement for life back into him.

We collect the dishes and clear the table talking about everything that he could study and everything that he could be.

I am still not sure how it would work if he, for instance, wanted to get a medical degree or anything that required a license, but for now I am just overwhelmed to see him be so happy.

“This is going to be great, Owen. This is going to be so good for you,” I say, giving him another hug.

“I think so, too,” he says. “Now, how about we celebrate with a bit of ice cream?”

10

Olive

When we celebrate…

Owen is a master at ice cream.

To him, it’s all about the combination of flavors; a scoop of vanilla with a scoop of caramel, topped with M&Ms and chocolate sauce.

“Are you sure you don’t want this?” he asks.

I shake my head.

I’m not eating dairy but I make an exception for tonight and for a little bit of ice cream.

But I draw the line at his concoction.

“I can’t believe you’re eating all of that,” I say.

“It’s delicious,” he insists.

I put one scoop of chocolate into my bowl and eat a spoonful before sitting down on the couch.

When Owen plops down opposite me, the faux leather couch compresses pushing me upward.

I put my bare feet up on the fluffy ottoman and relish its softness.

I take the remote and start my latest Netflix binge.

We watch for a little while enjoying both our presence and the silence.

I just need to give him more of a chance, I decide. Getting out of prison is a lot like coming back from war, at least according to the articles I read online.

People come out suffering from PTSD and anxiety and they have trouble adjusting to life on the outside.

On top of that, he didn’t exactly come out into a stable situation.

Instead of coming home to me, meeting with his parole officer and getting a job, following a curfew and a laid out set of rules, we went on the run.

It probably saved his life but now it’s time to do what he was supposed to do.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, turning to him. “About everything?”

“Good. Relieved actually,” he says, licking his spoon. “I think I’ve just been a little lost. And I’m sorry that I have been such an asshole.”

I nod.