Love Letters from Jail in Virginia

My first time in a jail was at two years old — to visit my incarcerated father. Mom was just 22, but this wasn’t her first time and it wouldn’t be her last time visiting him there. My father’s times on the outside were a rollercoaster of church-going, substance use, support groups, petty larceny, repentance and guilt. Recidivism, not rehabilitation, was the way of life. When I was six, four years after this visit, he died by suicide.

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