I was ten years old when my world collapsed. One ordinary day, my father was taken away — and I was standing right there when it happened. I knew the truth. I knew what he did and didn’t do. But truth doesn’t always survive paperwork, and it doesn’t always matter when money is tight and power is uneven. On paper, the case against him looked convincing enough. In real life, it was wrong. Still, a child’s voice doesn’t carry much weight in a courtroom, and we didn’t have the resources to fight the system the way it demanded. So my father went to prison.
From that moment on, our lives were measured in visits. Every weekend, my mother and I walked through the same metal detectors and fluorescent hallways. Visiting rooms never change — tangled phone cords 📞, broken vending machines 🥤, hard plastic chairs that make everything feel temporary and unreal. My father always smiled when he saw me. He always said he was okay. But even as a child, I could see the effort behind that smile, the strength it took to pretend everything was fine when seventeen years of his life were being taken away one day at a time.
Growing up without him wasn’t just painful — it was formative. I carried anger, confusion, and grief, but above all, I carried a promise. Quietly. Relentlessly. I would bring him home.
So I studied. I pushed myself when exhaustion hit. I chose law not because it was easy, but because it was necessary ⚖️. Years later, armed with knowledge my younger self never had, I reopened his case. I dug through old transcripts. I questioned evidence that had never truly been examined. And when new information was finally reviewed, something incredible happened — the system moved. Fast. Faster than I ever thought it could.
And today, my father walked out of prison 🚪✨.
Seventeen years stolen.
Seventeen years of birthdays, holidays, and ordinary moments lost forever.
But today, there was freedom. There was sunlight. There was justice — delayed, imperfect, but real.
Justice took time.
Love never gave up. 💛