I narrowed my eyes at my daughter. Was Tara naively assuming my acceptance, or was she testing me? A kid in juvenile jail who wanted to be a rap star? But I knew that censoring the relationship would only fuel Tara’s curiosity.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, and then added, “You know, at your stage, boys’re merely the flavor of the month.” I sprinkled basil in the sauce. Our conversations always took place at dinner. The bribe of food meant Tara would be there and might talk to me. Funny how different my daughters are. Sky told me everything, Tara tells me as little as necessary.

Tara rolled her eyes and jerked her head away. “This has been, like, five months, Mom.” She was tearing up lettuce for a salad.

“In a long-distance relationship, there’s not enough time to get bored or annoyed,” I warned her.

Tara had her hand on one hip, her mouth twisted in an expression of annoyance, and then said, “Besides, look at Sky and Troy.”

She got me there. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed,” I said slowly while stirring the sauce. I didn’t feel as casual about it as I was trying to sound. I had dated men of different races, but, for one reason or another, nothing major had come from those dates. I had grown up with my father’s subtly racist comments and knew he’d be dismayed by Tara’s boyfriend if he were alive. That wasn’t how I felt when I was a kid. And certainly not now. Even my father may have changed his attitudes by now. But my concern increased because Aaron was in prison. It’s the accumulation of difficulty. Race, class, the stigma of incarceration.

Tara interpreted my last comment as agreement. “Do you have a map? He, like, needs to know how to get here.”

“What about computers and Mapquest?”

“If he could get it that way, he would have, Mom.”

“In the car, Tara. Take the one from the car.”

Homecoming was two months away. I didn’t want to provide her with an excuse for rebellion. Things had been tenuous enough since Tara hit puberty and decided she wanted to live life on her own terms.

The letters kept coming. Two, sometimes three, a week, padded with pages. Tara read me some of his songs. At least they weren’t the misogynistic lyrics filled with the “n word” that I hated. He seemed to be stretching for something.

“He sounds angry at the world.”

“Guess he’s got that right.”

“You know”—I worked to keep my voice even and soft—“most people who’ve been to prison return. I think it’s over 65 percent. Don’t keep a blind eye to what it means. Prison doesn’t even try to rehabilitate, it just teaches violence and how to be a better criminal.”