When I was a year old, my parents were arrested. My mother came home 22 years later. My father came home after 40 years. I don’t remember the day they were taken from me, but I remember the visiting rooms, the metal detectors, the steel gates, the pat-downs I submitted to as a small child for the reward on the other side: the chance to sit in my mother’s lap, to hold my father’s hand, to be enveloped in a hug.

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