The Door Is Always Open: A Father’s Question After 18 Years Behind Bars

There are some things prison takes from you that you know about immediately.

Your freedom. Your time. Your ability to be there for the people you love when they need you.

And then there are the things you don't realize you've lost until years after you come home.

For me, one of those things has been my relationship with my son.

I went to prison when he was five years old. Before that, I was with him every weekend. We were close. I was his father, and being a father was important to me.

Even while I was incarcerated, we remained close.

For 18 years, my son visited me every month. We talked on the phone. We wrote letters. I stayed connected to his life in whatever ways I could from behind those walls.

I remember him telling me about his basketball games when he played at Central High School in Louisville. Those conversations meant a lot to me. Even though I couldn't be there in the way a father should be, I wanted to know what was happening in his life. I wanted to hear about his wins, his losses, and everything in between.

For 18 years, I held onto the belief that when I finally came home, our relationship would become even stronger.

And for the first two months, it did.

Then something changed.

When I Came Home

After I had been home for about two months, my son began becoming distant.

Eventually, one of his siblings told me that his mother had been advising him not to get too close to me because, from her perspective, whenever he got close to me, I ended up going back to prison.

Hearing that hurt.

It hurt because I had come home with good intentions. I wanted to do things differently. I wanted to be a father. I wanted to build a life. I wanted to stay free.

And I had already experienced a loss that is difficult to put into words.

While I was incarcerated, I lost another son to death in the streets.

So when I came home, I knew exactly what I had missed. I knew exactly how precious time with family was.

I thought that would make my relationship with my son even stronger.

Instead, over the next eight years, the distance continued.

I've called. I've texted. I've tried to visit. I've extended invitations. I've given gifts.

I've tried to show him, through my actions, that I am here.

But eventually, the communication stopped completely.

And the hardest part is that I don't really know why.

He has never explained it to me.

I don't know if it's resentment. I don't know if he's afraid. I don't know if something someone said affected him. I don't know if there's something else entirely that I don't understand.

I just know that I don't have a relation with my son.

The Part People Don't Talk About

When we talk about incarceration, we talk a lot about the person who goes to prison.

We talk about the sentence.

We talk about the years behind bars.

We talk about re-entry.

We talk about finding a job, finding housing, rebuilding your life and staying out of trouble.

All of those things matter.

But I don't think we talk enough about what happens to relationships.

Because when someone comes home after 18 years, the world doesn't simply pick up where it left off.

People have changed.

Children have grown up.

Families have experienced things without you.

And sometimes, the relationships you thought would be waiting for you aren't there anymore.

That's something I have had to learn the hard way.

He has relatives who love him. He has siblings he could have relationships with. I have six grandchildren - his nieces and nephews - who he has never even met and has no relationship with.

My son doesn't know the family that I have built and maintained relationships with over these past eight years.

I don't talk about him with his siblings. That's intentional. I don't want to put them in the middle. I don't want them to feel like they have to choose sides or carry messages between us.

But I still think about it.

And I wonder what we are all missing.

I've Changed

One of the things that makes this particularly difficult is knowing that I have changed.

My life is on the up and up.

I have a full-time job. I recently received a promotion. I've been with the same company for two years. I have good relationships with many members of my family, especially the younger ones.

And now I'm helping build something I'm incredibly proud of with Tha Fix. We're getting ready to launch the Tha Fix Media Network.

Life is good.

Really good.

With one major exception.

My son isn't part of it.

Most people who know me today see me for who I am today. They don't constantly judge me by the person I was more than 18 years ago.

I wish my son could see that person too.

I wish he could see that I am a family man first and foremost.

I wish he could see the father I've become.

I wish he could see the grandfather I am.

I wish he could meet the family members who love him.

Most of all, I wish he would give me a chance.

Not a chance to erase the past.

I know I can't do that.

I have made mistakes. I understand that my choices affected other people's lives. I carry that understanding with me.

But I am asking for a chance to show him who I am now.

When Do You Stop Trying?

This is the question I've been wrestling with lately.

At what point does a father stop trying?

Do I stop calling?

Do I stop initiating contact?

Do I stop hoping?

Do I finally give him the space he seems to want?

I don't want to.

I've always believed that a father never gets to stop trying.

But I'm also human.

There are days when I wonder whether continuing to reach for him is love or whether I'm hurting myself by refusing to let go.

Lately, I've realized that this situation has been affecting me emotionally more than I want to admit.

I have even thought that maybe I need to talk to a therapist or another professional about it.

Not because I want to give up on my son.

But because I want to learn how to carry this pain without allowing it to consume me.

The thought of finally accepting that I may need to step back scares me more than continuing to reach out and being rejected.

Because stepping back can feel like giving up.

And I'm not ready to give up.

Nothing Is More Important Than Freedom and Family

If I could go back and talk to the younger version of myself - the man who was about to spend 18 years behind bars - I would tell him something simple:

Nothing is more important than freedom and family.

Don't take either one for granted.

To anyone who has been incarcerated, I would say the same thing.

Don't take your relationships for granted.

Don't take your freedom for granted.

And when you come home, don't assume that everything will automatically fall back into place.

It might not.

You have to work for those relationships.

You have to show people who you are now.

And if you have a child who has become distant, don't sit back and assume that somehow the universe will bring you back together.

Reach out.

Keep the door open.

Don't give up.

At the same time, understand that you can't control someone else's decision to walk through that door.

That's the part I'm still learning.

What I Want My Son to Know

If my son ever reads this, I don't want him to feel attacked.

I don't want him to feel pressured.

I don't want him to feel like I'm trying to make him look bad.

I'm simply telling my truth.

I want him to know that I'm proud of the man he has become despite not having me in his life.

I wish I could have been there for more of it.

I wish we had a father-son relationship today.

I don't think it's fair that we don't.

But I also know I can't force him to have a relationship with me.

All I can do is keep the door open.

So if you ever wonder whether your father still wants you in his life, the answer is yes.

If you ever wonder whether I love you, the answer is yes.

If you ever wonder whether it's too late, I don't believe it is.

All I want is a chance for you to see the man that I have become.

I'm here for you.

I love you.

And the door is always open.