The Holidays With a Father Who Isn’t Home

The Holidays With a Father Who Isn’t Home

The holidays are supposed to feel warm. Safe. Full.

For me, they’ve always carried an emptiness I learned to live with.

My dad has been in prison for nearly thirty years. Wrongfully convicted. Thirty years of holidays without him at the table. Thirty years of traditions that never quite felt complete. Thirty years of pretending I wasn’t counting who was missing.

Growing up, I didn’t know anything different. Prison visits were normal. Collect calls were normal. Celebrating early or late, or not at all, was normal. I learned how to smile through it because that’s what you do when you don’t want to break your family’s heart any more than it already is.

But the holidays have a way of cracking things open.

They show you what you don’t have. They remind you of what was taken. They force you to feel time — how much of it has passed, how much was stolen, how much you can never get back.

Now, I’m a parent too. And the holidays hurt in a new way.

I watch my son get excited about Santa, decorations, family dinners. He asks where everyone will sit, who will be there, who’s coming. And then comes the question I never stop bracing for.

“Why can’t Papa come?”

There’s no easy answer. No age-appropriate way to explain injustice. No simple sentence that makes it make sense. I tell him that Papa loves him very much. That he didn’t do anything wrong. That sometimes grown-ups make big mistakes, and we’re still trying to fix one of them.

I tell him Papa wishes he could be here. That he thinks about him every single day.

Some years, my son accepts that answer easily. Other years, he doesn’t. He asks again. He gets quiet. He asks if Papa is sad. I tell him the truth — yes, sometimes. Just like us.

Explaining this to my child cracks something open in me every time. Because now I see the loss through his eyes too. A grandfather he knows through photos, phone calls, and visits. A bond built in a prison visiting room instead of a living room, through short hugs and long goodbyes.

I watch people complain about awkward dinners, annoying relatives, or needing a break from family. And sometimes I want to scream. Because I would give anything for one holiday where my dad could just be there. Sitting on the couch. Making a dumb comment. Falling asleep after eating too much. Being normal.

Instead, my holidays include planning visits around visiting hours. Wondering if the weather will cancel them. Sending cards that will be searched before he touches them. Sitting across from him in a prison visiting room, hugging for a few minutes, and pretending it’s enough.

I decorate. I cook. I laugh. I try to make magic for my son. But there’s always a quiet ache underneath it all — the knowledge that he’s missing someone too, through no fault of his own.

My dad tries to make it easier. He tells me not to be sad. He jokes. He asks about my son, about what he likes, what he’s learning, what he wants for Christmas. He never lets the bitterness win, even though he has every reason to let it consume him.

That’s what hurts the most — how much grace he carries for a world that failed him.

Some years, the holidays feel unbearable. Other years, they feel almost okay. I’ve learned that both can exist at the same time. Joy and grief. Love and anger. Hope and exhaustion.

What people don’t realize is that wrongful conviction doesn’t just imprison one person. It traps entire families. It stretches across generations. It shows up in children’s questions and empty chairs and conversations no parent should have to prepare for.

But it also teaches me something.

That love survives walls. That family doesn’t disappear because it’s separated. That my dad is still showing up as a father and a grandfather in every way he can.

So during the holidays, I hold space for it all. The sadness. The gratitude. The anger. The hope. I light candles. I say my dad’s name. I tell my son stories about his Papa. I promise him that one day, we’ll celebrate together — not in a visiting room, not on a phone, but in a way that finally feels whole.

Until then, we do the best we can.

We keep going.
We keep loving.
And we keep believing that someday, the holidays will feel different.