The first time they called me a murderer, I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it sounded impossible.
I remember standing in the middle of the courtroom, my hands trembling inside cold metal cuffs while strangers whispered my name like it had suddenly become poisonous.
"Guilty."
That single word shattered everything I thought I knew about my life.
Even now… I still don't know whose blood stained my hands.
They said I planned it.
They said I had motive.
They said I destroyed a life out of jealousy.
But the truth?
I don't even remember the night they claim I killed someone.
Only fragments live inside my head.
A broken glass.
A scream.
And a shadow standing behind me before everything went dark.
I kept waiting for someone to speak up.
My husband.
My best friend.
My family.
Someone who knew me well enough to say, She would never do something like that.
But no one did.
Not even him.
The man who once promised to spend his life protecting me never looked me in the eyes during the trial.
He sat beside my best friend instead.
Holding her hand while my world burned.
I remember searching the courtroom for him when the judge announced my sentence.
Ten years.
Ten years stolen from a life I didn't even get to defend.
I thought he would stand up.
I thought he would fight for me.
I thought he loved me.
He didn't move.
Prison is strange.
Not because of the walls.
Not because of the silence.
But because time stops feeling real.
Days bleed into nights until memories start fading.
Faces disappear.
Voices become echoes.
Promises turn into lies you slowly accept.
The first year, I waited for visitors.
I waited for letters.
I waited for someone to tell me they were still searching for the truth.
And then… he finally came.
I remember how my heart almost stopped when the guard called my name that morning.
I thought maybe everything was going to be okay again.
He sat across the glass barrier, wearing the same calm smile that once made me believe nothing bad could ever touch me.
"I'm working on it," he told me softly.
"I will clear your name. Just trust me."
I pressed my hand against the glass, pretending I could still reach him.
I asked about our children.
He said they were fine.
He said they missed me.
He said I should stay strong for them.
That was the last time I ever saw my husband.
He never visited again.
No letters.
No calls.
No updates.
It was as if the promise he made that day died before he even left the prison gates.
After that…
Silence became my only companion.
Not my husband.
Not my children.
Not even the people who once called me family.
No one came.
Not once.
The second year, I stopped asking the guards if anyone had called.
Hope becomes heavy when you carry it alone.
By the fifth year, I stopped believing I would ever leave those walls alive.
The only thing that kept me breathing…
Were my children.
My daughter used to braid my hair every morning before school.
My son used to cry if I wasn't the one who carried him to sleep.
Their laughter used to fill our mansion louder than any music.
I repeated their names every night like a prayer.
Afraid I might forget how happiness sounded.
But prison teaches you something cruel.
Sometimes…
The people you miss the most are already living a life without you.
And when the gates finally opened for me after years of stolen time…
I believed I was walking back to my family.
I didn't know I was walking into a funeral for the life I once had.