He Is More Than His Sentence

To most people, my father is known as a wrongfully convicted man. A case. A number. A story tied to injustice and broken systems.

But to me, he is so much more than what was taken from him.

Before prison, before courtrooms and paperwork, he was just my dad. He was warmth and laughter and protection. He was the kind of person who could make you laugh even when nothing was funny. He had this dry, teasing sense of humor that made you feel like you were in on a secret with him. Being around him felt easy. Safe. Light.

He was taken from me when I was only four years old, so the only memories I have of my dad as a free man live in those early years — small, bright moments I still hold onto.

I remember being bundled up in a tiny snowsuit, sitting in a sled on a frozen lake while my dad pulled me across the ice. We were ice fishing. I didn’t really know what that meant — I just knew that whenever a little flag popped up, my dad would light up and take off running toward it, dragging me behind him, laughing as I bounced along in the sled. Even in the cold, he made it feel warm.

But he wasn’t just playful — he was patient. He was the kind of dad who explained things slowly, who listened, who let you talk even when your stories didn’t make sense. He never made me feel small. He made me feel important.

Even now, his humor still finds its way through prison walls.

Sometimes he’ll call just to tell me something ridiculous he overheard or a joke he’s been holding onto all day. Sometimes he pretends he’s not calling because he misses me — even though we both know he does. He teases me, makes me laugh, tries to keep things light even when the weight of everything could crush us both.

That’s how he survives. That’s how we survive.

Now, decades later, our relationship lives through a phone — and the occasional visit.

We talk anywhere from two to five times a day. Sometimes it’s quick. Sometimes it’s long. But it’s constant. He calls to check on me. To ask about my son. To hear how my day went. To remind me who I am when life gets heavy.

We don’t just talk about the case. We talk about normal things — what I’m cooking for dinner, a book he’s reading, something funny my son said. We laugh more than people probably expect two people in our situation to laugh. That laughter is our rebellion. Our way of refusing to let this steal everything.

Through those calls, he is still my dad. Still steady. Still protective. Still proud of me. He is a grandfather who hasn’t gotten to tuck his grandson in at night, but loves him with a fierceness that shows in every story he asks me to tell.

My father is gentle. He is funny. He is thoughtful. He is resilient in a way that only someone who has survived unimaginable injustice can be. Even after decades of being treated like less than human, he still chooses love, compassion, and hope.

Yes, he is wrongfully convicted.

Yes, his story deserves justice.

But he is also the man who dragged me across the ice in a sled.

The man who runs toward every flag that flies up.

The man who still calls me every time he knows I need him.

The man who makes me laugh even when everything hurts.

He is not defined by a sentence.

He is defined by the love and light he never stopped giving — even when everything else was taken from him.

And that is who my dad really is. 🤍