The Good Son


By JD Richardson

 I recall your acne-ravaged face, the way your neck reddened as the judge called you a dangerous, violent youth. He vowed to make an example. “You got it wrong,” I said. “He’s just my son.”

“It’s bad out there ma,” you said. “Carried a blade, thought he had one.” Did he? Was it snatched, as the friends you followed, street-smart, uncaring ran away?

I visited last week, you’d lost a tooth. “Not safe in here,” you said. I can do nothing, merely watch as you are broken, piece by piece, the candy heart I gave you, crushed and stolen.


7 thoughts on “The Good Son

  1. I read your work everyday almost. I love your stories. I think this one particularly got me because I think of the parents and how hard it would be to have your son in prison where he is getting hurt badly and there is nothing they can do about it. They are helpless. And being helpless makes you feel small and useless. So I am heartbroken for them. Good story.


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