She sat in the dock, hearing the judge address the jury. She knew she would be convicted and should do five years.
Five years, when she no longer had to look after Craig. Hopefully, sometime during those five years something would happen; he’d die of an overdose, he’d die of some disease, he’d be locked up for something, whatever.
She should feel shame, guilt, after all Craig was her son. But after this decade of failure, going to prison was for her, escape.
She would have five years that Craig could not pound on her door, break into her flat, stop her on the street.
For five years he couldn’t look into her face, swear that he was clean, then steal her money to buy another fix.
For five years she didn’t have to walk the filthy streets looking for him.
For five years, she was free of Craig.