“In prison,” said Charlie, “all you want is to know someone loves you.”

Charlie had been inside for 22 years. Nobody ever came to visit at Christmas. Never. Not even once. Sometimes he wondered if anyone remembered him.

Usually, Charlie’s Christmas consisted of going to the chow hall—it was the only time of year when the kitchen actually made an effort to give you decent food.

A lot of the guys just hung out in the TV rooms, watching the NBA. Others drank prison hooch. Some just stayed in their cells and stared at the walls.

Christmas morning in prison is quiet. Uneventful. For most, it is a reminder of how crappy your life is. How forgotten you are. Another calendar day.

Families rarely visit inmates on Christmas. What would you rather do on Christmas? Stay home and eat ham? Or get dressed and go to the clink for visiting hours?

Most guys inside don’t see any family members unless they’re locked up with them.

But this Christmas morning was different. They woke Charlie and told him he had visitors.

“Visitors?” said Charlie.

“Get dressed,” said the guard. “They’re already here, waiting for you.”

“Who is?”

“You’ll see.”

Who could be visiting? Charlie had gone inside when he was in his 30s. He was in his 50s now. His frame was gaunt. His hair was white. The other inmates called him “Pops.”

The guard led him to the visiting area. They called the visiting area the “dance floor.” You only went to the dance floor, if you were lucky. Most guys never got to go.

If you were, however, taken to the dance floor, you lived like royalty. You ate from vending machines. You could play around with your kids—if you had any. And you felt like a human being for a little while.

Charlie followed the guard to the dance floor with a lump of clay in his throat. Who was waiting for him?

When he arrived, there were a few families there. Not many, but some. They were all hanging out. Guys were playing with kids, kissing their girlfriends or wives.

Then Charlie saw a familiar face. It was his chaplain. Beside his chaplain was Charlie’s ex-wife. He hadn’t seen her since he’d gotten locked up. Standing beside her were several of his family members.

Charlie’s brother, who lived across the country. His older sister. His elderly mother, who lived in a nursing home. And his three adult children, who had driven 14 hours to be here.

Charlie lost it. He fell to his knees and began to cry. Which he hadn’t done in decades. You don’t cry in prison.

His family came to him. They threw their arms around Charlie. His kids called him “Daddy.” His mother called him “Baby.” And for a moment in time, Charlie was more than just a number.

There was a tree, with gifts under it. Gifts for Charlie. A prison photographer took photos to document the visit. And in the photos, everyone was smiling.

When the visit came to an end, Charlie was being ushered to the chow hall. His cheeks were slick with moisture. And his chest was throbbing.

His chaplain chased him down before he left. “Merry Christmas, Charlie,” he said. “I want you to know how much you mean to me. And how much I love you. We all love you.”

“Like I say,” said Charlie, “all you want is to know someone loves you.”