On the morning of my scheduled execution, a correctional officer stopped outside my cell at exactly six o’clock.
“Elena Cole.”
I stood slowly.
My knees hurt.
My hands trembled.
Five years inside prison had changed me more than I wanted to admit.
My dark hair had turned gray around the temples.
My face looked hollow.
Some mornings, I barely recognized the woman reflected in the small metal mirror above my sink.
The officer informed me that my final preparations would begin later that day.
I nodded.
Then I asked whether I could make one request.
He looked uncomfortable.
“What is it?”
“I want to see my daughter.”
His expression softened.
“Elena, I don’t know if that’s possible.”
“Please.”
My voice broke.
“She’s eight years old, and I haven’t held her in almost three years.”
He glanced toward the other officer.
“I’ll pass it along.”
I reached through the bars as far as I could.
