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January 29th, 1991 — Portsmouth, NH 10:25 AM, EST
Shelby had woken Robbo up at the crack of dawn after a restless night of sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes, her mind was filled with the images of the loved ones she and Rob had been reminiscing earlier. After lying awake for what felt like hours, Shelby came to the realization that they were all dead, except one: her father.
She couldn't go back to Florida without seeing him. As much as it would pain her to do so, and as anxious as the thought of seeing him after all those years made her feel, she knew she had to. She had to talk to him again. She had to make amends. She'd just lost her grandmother, after finally making amends with her. Shelby still felt guilt over her relationship with Gran, but there wasn't anything she could do now. She wasn't sure if she could forgive herself if something were to happen to her father and they had never made up. Shelby was his only daughter, and he was her only remaining family. She had to go talk to him, but she couldn't do it alone.
Robbo, of course, ever supportive and gracious as he always was, happily agreed to go with her after she'd asked him.
Shelby had found the prison's visiting hours in a phone book, woken Robbo, and then the two had made breakfast before hitting the road.
The prison was in Concord, which was only a little over an hour away. Shelby was glad that Rob had volunteered to drive, because she was so nervous that she was sure she wouldn't have been able to keep her eyes on the road.
What if her dad didn't want to see her? No, of course he'd want to see her. Shelby had never gone to visit him in all the years he'd been there, though. Maybe he didn't want to see her.
No, she was his only daughter. He'd be happy to see her. Surprised, yes, but happy.
Happy? What if he wasn't happy? What if he was annoyed with her? If Shelby was in prison, and she had a daughter that never came to visit, she'd be pretty upset. Then again, towards the end, her father hadn't been the best father. Shelby had a lot of reasons to be mad at him. Yeah, if anyone should be mad, it should be Shelby.
Or should it be?
After all these years, did Shelby have a right to be mad?
He'd chosen drugs over his own daughter, for God's sake. He was more likely to be on the streets selling narcotics than at home with his daughter, reading her a book or something.
Of course, it hadn't always been that way.
His wife had just died unexpectedly , and then he was stuck with a small, redheaded creature that had brought the said wife's demise. He'd never grieved properly over Shelby's mother's death, Shelby knew that. He'd never had the chance — he'd had a baby to raise.
They used to do things together, when Shelby was very young. They'd lay out on the grass in the backyard and look up at the sky. He'd taught her the constellations, and Shelby would stare longingly up at the moon.
