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A prison guard told me to remove my hoodie before entering the visiting room. I thought it was a security issue. It wasn't. I visit my brother every two weeks. Eighteen months now. He got three years for something I'm not going to get into. He was twenty-two. Angry. Made a stupid decision that cost him everything. Mum won't go. Says she can't face it. Dad's been gone since I was twelve. So it's me. Every other Thursday. Same train. Same bus from the station. Same walk up to the gates. You get used to the routine. Locker for your phone. Clear bag for your coins. Sniffer dog. Pat down. Stamp on your hand. Sit down. Wait. I was wearing my hoodie because it's what I always wear. It's Thursday. I'm not dressing up to sit in a visiting room on a plastic chair. I'd been through security a hundred times. Same guards. Same nod. Same wave through. Thursday the guard didn't wave me through. "Can you step over here a second?" My stomach dropped. Something's happened. Something's happened to him. A fight. An incident. They're going to tell me he's in hospital or isolation or worse. The guard walked me to a side area. Just off the main corridor. Not a room. Just a corner away from the queue. He looked at my hoodie. "I need you to take that off." I started pulling it over my head. Thinking there's a rule I've missed. No hoodies. No hoods. Something. "No," he said. "Sorry. I don't need you to actually take it off. I just needed you to stop so I could read it properly." I looked down. "You are enough." "And the back. I've been trying to read it every visit for three months. You always walk through too fast." I turned around. Standing in a prison corridor while a guard read the back of my hoodie. "Dear person behind me, the world is a better place with you in it." When I turned back he was leaning against the wall. Arms crossed. But not like a guard. Like a man trying to hold himself up. "Twenty-three years I've worked here," he said. "Twenty-three years of locking doors and unlocking them and locking them again." He looked at the floor. "My son was inside. Not here. Different prison. Four years ago. Did two years. GBH. He was nineteen." He shook his head. "Imagine that. Going to work every day locking up other people's sons while your own son's locked up somewhere else. Coming home and not being able to tell anyone because how do you explain that." He looked at my hoodie. "He's out now. He's okay. But he's not okay. He doesn't talk to me. Says I chose the job over him. Says how could I lock people up for a living when I know what it does." His voice dropped. "He's right. I do know what it does. I see it every day. And I couldn't protect him from it." He wiped his face. Quick. Someone walked past. He straightened up. "Where did you get it?" I told him about Live2Live. How it was started by someone who lost her sister to suicide. And that a portion of every sale goes to mental health nonprofits. He pulled out his phone. Ordered one. "For him. My son. He won't take it from me directly. I'll leave it at his flat. No note. He'll know." He nodded at me. "Sorry for stopping you. Go see your brother." I walked into the visiting room. My brother was already at the table. Saw my face. "You alright?" "Yeah. Guard wanted to talk to me about my hoodie." He looked at it. Read the front. "You are enough." He almost smiled. "You're the only person who comes. You know that right? Eighteen months. Everyone else stopped." I didn't know what to say. "The lads in here. Most of them get no one. Their mums stop coming. Their girlfriends move on. Their mates forget. And they sit in their cells thinking they're nothing." He looked at my hoodie again. "Half the men in here need to see those words. They won't believe them. But they need to see them." Visiting time ended. I stood up. He stood up. We're not allowed to hug for long. The guards watch. He grabbed me. Quick. Tight. "Thanks for coming. Every time. Thanks for still coming." Walking out through the gates. Woman in the car park. She'd been in the visiting room too. I'd seen her at the vending machine. She had two kids in the back of her car. She looked at my hoodie. "Sorry. I was sitting behind you in there. I've been reading your back for an hour." She paused. "My husband's in there. Sixteen months left. The kids ask every night when Daddy's coming home. I don't know what to tell them anymore." She looked at the front. "'You are enough.' I say that to myself every morning before I get them up for school. That I'm enough for them. That they don't need two parents. That I can do this." Her eyes were wet. "Some days I don't believe it. But today your hoodie said it to me. And that was enough to get me through visiting time without falling apart." She asked where I got it. I told her. She ordered one on her phone. "For the drive home. So the kids can read the back from the back seat." Three people. One prison. One Thursday afternoon. I go there every two weeks because nobody else will. I sit on a plastic chair and pretend everything's fine because that's what my brother needs. And a guard who spent twenty-three years locking doors couldn't find the words to unlock his own son. And a woman in the car park is holding an entire family together and doesn't think she's enough. You never know who's behind you. You never know what they're carrying. Front says "You're Enough." Back says "Dear person behind me, the world is a better place with you in it." Wear it. Some people need those words in places where nobody says them.