They never told me not to buy one, much less not to listen to it. That’s why now, when I talk to young patrol wives, I do.

Don’t get one, I tell them. And if you do, make sure you don’t listen to it, especially when he’s on duty.

Ours was a Uniden Bearcat, capable of scanning more than 50 channels. That night, I was tuned into one – 42.120, the Starkville substation – when I should have been in bed. Because if I’d been in bed where I belonged, instead of up, icing a chocolate cake, I wouldn’t have heard my husband say the two words you never want to hear: Officer down.

Somehow I got to the scene, a rural spot which was, by that time, lit up in a sea of blue lights. My wise driver wouldn’t let me get out. He was a captain’s son, level-headed, and he’d just spent 15 minutes with an aloud-praying woman who didn’t know whether her husband was dead or alive.

No, he wouldn’t let me out until he found out. Something.

The something was good news. Those in charge said an ambulance ride and hospital stay would fix the officer, who had been down, right up. My wise driver finally let me out and led me to him.

There, in a 1989 Crown Vic, sat my husband, wearing a blood-soaked uniform I had ironed just that morning. And a smile.

Thanks to an all-out, all-night manhunt (and a girlfriend with loose lips), the guys who had escaped were caught. Investigators retrieved evidence from a creek bed while I retrieved kids from the neighbor.

I had my husband. He had a new four-inch scar to hide in his hairline. We were grateful.

Fast forward a few months and a move south. I went back with him for the week-long trial and a free education. There, in the Clay County courtroom, I learned the importance of jury duty. Got my fill of a certain defense lawyer. Grew to appreciate our hardworking D.A.

Then I had a lesson from a most unexpected teacher, one who just happened to belong to the defendant.

She sought me out, cutting through the crowd and all our differences. It’s a good thing the lawyers didn’t notice. I’m not too sure they would have approved of two women, meeting across an aisle in a courtroom, all because of two men and a mess.

But there we were. Me, bowed out with eight months of baby. Her, bowed down with who knows how many years of son-inflicted sorrow. She apologized. To me. For him.

In the middle of a courtroom ripe with lies and distortions, she taught me the hard truth of one of the Bible’s proverbs: A foolish son is a grief to his father and bitterness to her who bore him.

I hope she knows I was paying attention. I was young then, with not much mothering under my belt. It takes time to understand the pain that comes from things that can’t be undone, especially when it’s your child doing them.

Last week a fellow lawman from another part of the state shot my husband a text. Seems Parchman’s population has decreased by one.

Surprisingly, it’s not him, the recently-released, that I’ve been thinking of since I heard the news. I’ve been thinking of her, his mother. She lived through a lot.

I wonder. Did she live to see him out?

Wesson resident Kim Henderson is a freelance writer who writes for The Daily Leader. Contact her at henderson7@juno.com.