The two months between verdict and sentencing were the longest of my life.
We lived in limbo convicted but not yet imprisoned, free but not really free, trying to prepare for a future we couldn't control.
"I want to take Sofia to the park," I told Dante one morning. "Just normal things. While I still can."
"Your ankle monitor only allows a three-mile radius."
"There's a park two blocks away. That's enough."
So I took Sofia to the park. Pushed her on the swings. Watched her chase pigeons. Memorized the sound of her laugh.
Other mothers gave me strange looks they'd seen the news, recognized me. The mob boss convicted of racketeering. The criminal pretending to be a normal mom.
"You shouldn't be around children," one woman said, pulling her kid away from Sofia.
"I'm a mother. Same as you."
"You're a criminal. There's a difference."
I didn't argue. Just gathered Sofia and left, crying the whole way home.
