Personal Childhood And Past Trauma Stories:
My Dad Went To Prison When I Was In Eighth Grade
It’s 1996
I just finished 8th grade and was about to get on the bus for our class trip to Washington D.C. from Florida.
The mood was buzzing—everyone excited, ready to escape for a while.
Before I left, I had asked my dad: “Hey, is it okay if I skip this weekend with you?” Just this once. I wanted to have a sleepover with my friend. He said okay.
My parents had been divorced since I was six. Which, honestly, was a blessing. Because my dad was an abusive alcoholic— but only when he drank. The rest of the time, he was sweet. You know how that story goes.
He was the kind of dad who’d forget to pick me up, while I sat with my bags packed every other weekend. He’d call on my birthday, too drunk to remember why it mattered.
But in 8th grade, things shifted. He finally started showing up. Started taking me every other weekend.
His new wife—the woman from the bar he left my mom for— hated my existence. She was an alcoholic too.
She’d ask me things like: “Are you patronizing me?” “Do you think you’re better than me?”
All while I tried. Tried to bond with her. Tried to connect with her 18-year-old punk rock daughter. I just wanted to belong.
As I’m getting on the school bus for D.C., my history teacher pulls me aside, holding a newspaper. My dad’s face is on the front page.
That weekend, he and my stepmom got drunk. They fought. And my dad… took her life.
The next year, I was the one on the front page. Standing in a courtroom in my navy blue blazer and floral skirt, testifying on behalf of my father.
Telling the judge and jury: “He was nice sometimes. He carved pumpkins with me. He took me to water parks.”
While her family—her people— threw hate and heartbreak at mine.
We sat there and listened to the details of that night. The slideshow. The pictures. The timeline of how he left her body for days before finally turning himself in.
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