He was just an ordinary guy. He kept to himself. He had to. He didn’t want the other inmates to know what he was like or what he had done. They might attack him, perhaps even kill him. He wouldn’t really care. He deserved it.

They were arrogant about what they’d done, didn’t care who knew, used it even as a source of pride. Car theft, armed robbery, using and selling drugs, or the more genteel crimes – money laundering, scamming vulnerable people by their wits and clever schemes, defrauding the government, and so on – until it all came undone, which it usually did, sooner or later.

The more violent ones used their time to plan revenge attacks and figure out elaborate payback schemes for those who were responsible for their incarceration. The white-collar criminals used their time to devise other plans, equally elaborate, for prosperity upon their release. A new start. They had become accustomed to the high life.

They looked at him with suspicion because he didn’t and wouldn’t share his details. When asked, he would just mutter “violence” and turn away.

He did not care for their conversation. He was not a roughneck, although he knew his jail time was well deserved. Nor did he fit with the smart criminals.

No, he was just an ordinary guy, filled with shame and guilt for his one unplanned crime.

He had no idea what he would do upon his release. He made no plans.

His partner had left him – she had in fact testified against him. He bore her no ill-will, for he knew it was what he deserved. He’d put her through incredible pain. No, he couldn’t blame her in the least.

Day followed each weary dreary day.

He was not in solitary confinement, although mentally he felt he was. There was no friend, no-one to offer comfort or encouragement, despite his being constantly in the midst of his fellow inmates’ clamour and noise. No-one who understood. He was totally alone.

For the millionth time he wished he could undo that last evening, could change the course of history. He and Evie had so looked forward to having a child, but they were young and knew nothing about infants. They had no support network. But they had each other, and they had love.

Their baby Emily was beautiful – but she cried a lot. No, screamed a lot.

Evie was confused and upset, tried everything to settle her, to no avail. She became tired and depressed.

One evening, after what seemed like an eternity of sleepless nights, he’d offered to look after the baby while Evie rested.

Why was the baby crying? He offered her milk, he rubbed her back, sang to her, talked to her, walked with her. Hours passed. Nothing worked.

The shrill screaming continued, piercing his brain like arrows. His tension and frustration mounted.

“What’s wrong with you?” he shouted, nerves frazzled from the accumulation of sleepless nights. “Settle down! Be quiet!” He was desperate.

He shook the baby. She stopped crying. He shook her again. All was quiet. She just needed to know who was boss. He lay her back in the crib.

The next morning, a horrifying awareness dawned. They rushed the baby to the hospital. Yes, she was breathing, but no, she wasn’t crying. She was just … limp. Like a rag doll.

He’d shaken her so vigorously that her brain had become dislodged, and the optic nerve damaged also, beyond repair. She was diagnosed with severe cerebral palsy, and she was blind.

Emily was taken from her parents and placed into long-term foster care with a kind new “mother”; she grew into a very attractive child – but she never learned to sit independently, nor stand, nor walk. The foster mother dressed Emily beautifully and plaited her long blond hair neatly, decorating it with ribbons and pretty hairclips. She cared for her with love, patience, and gentleness.

Emily still cried a lot. But she never spoke.

Seven years after he had been sent to jail, his beautiful blond blue-eyed daughter passed away, having never uttered a single word in her short life.

He wept. His deep secret of guilt, remorse, and shame was a burden he would carry for his whole life.