Below you will find 2 versions of chapter 23 “The Trial.” I would love to hear which version resonates best with you, the reader. Which do you find more powerful, relatable and impactful to you?

Standing in the dayroom I stared at the Memo of the Day. I’d read it three times and my heart sank. A prison-wide lockdown was scheduled for next week, the very day of the trial for my parental rights! Lockdowns during past court hearings had occasionally happened and it was always reported by Social Services that I chose not to attend, which frustrated me. I wish I had the ability to choose!

I considered what to do, trying to remain calm. I could ask for permission to be out of my cell during the lockdown. The challenge here was that the prison had a “chain-of-command,” for which all inmate to staff communication must follow. Going up the chain of command to a level high enough to grant me this permission could take weeks, months even!

Ignoring the chain-of-command could also have serious consequences for me, but I felt it was a risk worth taking. Grabbing several new kite forms, I headed to my room determined to hit the entire chain of command in one strike.

Have you ever had an unexpected setback to plans that are important to you? How did you respond? How did it feel?

I did not know what to expect from the upcoming trial, which would be held in Washington state and which I would attend via phone. Years later, after my release from prison, I would receive some insights into Washington state’s attitudes about justice. Sitting in my probation officer’s office, she shared a phone conversation with me that she’d just had.

My probation officer had wanted to make certain that Social Services in Washington had a clear understanding of my rights as a parent. Speaking with a caseworker she explained that I was doing very well, was violation free, and had completed all treatment and therapy required. Shocked, the caseworker asked her to repeat it. The caseworker then told her, “That never happens in Washington. No one ever completes sex offender treatment here. We use treatment as a method for violating felons on probation to keep them in prison forever.”

Absolutely stunned (and angry), my probation officer wasn’t sure how to respond. Finally she said, “Well we don’t do that here in Minnesota. We believe in people, and I care about the people I supervise.” We also learned that Washington state automatically terminates the parental rights of anyone convicted of murder or a sex offense. Minnesota does no such thing.

Interestingly, the state of Minnesota has one of the lowest recidivism rates nationwide, ranked #5 with only 4 other states having a lower rate of criminals reoffending. Washington state, on the other hand, ranks #26.

Recidivism: A relapse into criminal behavior; re-offending. The re- in recidivism is the same re- in relapse and return, and like those words recidivism is about going back: it’s a tendency to relapse, especially into criminal behavior.

At the time of the trial in 2016, I didn’t know any of this. I didn’t know that the social workers, prosecutors, and judges probably rankled at the fact that I still retained my rights as a parent. Perhaps they saw their duty as righting a wrong the state of Minnesota perpetuates. I was fighting a system and a mindset that I was unfamiliar with.

I was assuming two inaccurate facts – that rescue from pain is a virtue and that God needs help from human beings to teach people about Himself.

I began to see it was possible that if my rights to Tim as his mother were terminated, it could be to save us both from something much worse.

Two days before the trial was set to begin, I received a reply from prison administration. I would be allowed out of my cell to attend the trial by phone. My caseworker called me down to her office to discuss the details.

“This is extremely unusual,” she began. “I’ve never seen someone allowed out of their cell during a lockdown, and especially not with the speed in which your request was granted.” She shook her head in wonder.

While I was grateful, I didn’t take it as a sign I would win at trial. I didn’t know what to make of it. Instead of great joy I felt numb, or at most, dread.

The day of the trial I was released from my room and ushered to a private room with a phone. After a short wait the phone rang. “Ms Aho? This is the court administrator. I’ll put you through to the courtroom, the trial will begin shortly.” I thanked her and waited.

The call connected as the judge brought everything to order. Everyone present was asked to state their name and role. I quickly learned that my husband was not present, although his court appointed attorney was there.

The state quickly made its case, referring often to the now thick stack of reports filed by Social Services over the years. It was immediately clear that my husband would lose his rights, in fact had given them up long ago through his repeated failure to follow reunification plans. I held out hope for my own rights.

Allowed to testify, I laid out my hard work over the past 5 years, listing graduation from treatment and many other programs. The prosecutor then had an opportunity to question me. He immediately attacked, pointing out my sex offense, instantly accusing me of being a pedophile.

“I am not a pedophile and I have the mental health assessments to prove it!” I retorted. “I committed a crime more than 6 years ago, and I have worked hard to do better,” I finished.

The prosecutor laughed mockingly and responded, “Yeah, one crime  that we know about!” Insinuating I may have committed many such offenses undetected.

Shocked, I spat out, “Right back at you, buddy.” This guy could be a rampant, uncaught sex offender for all we knew. We treat people by what we know they have done, not for all the things we suppose are possible to do. I was disgusted by his attitude.

 The trial seemed nothing but a formality, a necessary step in terminating our rights as parents. The system was a machine, a papermill, and people didn’t matter, thinking wasn’t allowed.

A few days later I received the official notice in the mail of the court’s decision. I don’t even remember that moment, to be honest. I’d lost and my rights were terminated. What I do remember is going to work as usual all week and feeling calmer than I’d expected.

At this time Tim was the only one of my children I was still in contact with and now this, too, would end. Lukas, age 17, had been kicked out of the house by my husband. Luke had no phone of his own and became unreachable to me. My husband refused me access to my daughter, now age 9. My son Noel was recently angry with me and now refusing to talk to me. My son Tom had severed contact with me the previous winter after I began sending letters about the Bible. Even my mom wouldn’t speak to me, incensed that I thought God could love me.

In the past breaks in communication with my children occurred, but never everyone all at once. Used to buying phone time and making regular calls “home” I now found myself adrift, without connection. I still wrote weekly letters to my children, but now even that would be one less.

Sometimes God provided humor to this ministry.

Tommy wanted to let me know that respect, especially respect for one’s parents, was repeatedly stressed in his JROTC program.

October arrived and my new public attorney contacted me. I’d indicated I wanted to fight the court’s decision to terminate my rights. This new attorney would work on my appeals. I held out little hope but was glad I could still do something about the situation.

In November I received a surprise email from Tommy. He asked me to call him. He explained that he was currently in JROTC. The Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps is a federal program sponsored by the United States Armed Forces in high schools and in some middle schools across the United States and at US military bases across the world. Tommy’s school partnered with the U.S. Marine Corps to provide this program to their students.

Tommy wanted to let me know that respect, especially respect for one’s parents, was repeatedly stressed in his JROTC program. He would not tell me the reason why he had stopped speaking to me the previous winter, however he now believed that no matter what he must be respectful, and the silent treatment towards me was not respectful on his part.

While I was still lost on the reasons why he’d gone from a loving son to a distant one, I was very glad he’d reopened the lines of communication! I began to call him regularly again. Our calls now, however, were much different than they’d been in the past. Truthfully, I walked on eggshells, letting him lead the conversations. I was just glad to be talking with him again!

 Christmas came and went, this year without donated treats. The New Year rang in, and I had less than 2 years to go before my release.

The trial regarding my parental rights of my youngest son Tim was an extremely impactful event in my life. This event was so traumatic for me that I struggle to recall details of the trial itself as well as any events in the weeks before or after it occurred. Emotions I experienced at the time are also muted for me. 

I want to share this story, but I find it difficult to do in a way that impacts the reader powerfully. Searching my memories for details has been like searching for a library book that is always checked out. I know it exists but I’m never able to examine the contents.

The trial occurred in late September 2016. I remember the first half of the year quite well. In August the year disappears, memories restarting in vivid detail the following June. I know I have memories of that time, but they exist without context or importance.

I had been socially executed years prior when I entered prison. Every felony is a life sentence, much of it an unspoken sentence.

Searching my memories for details has been like searching for a library book that is always checked out. I know it exists but I’m never able to examine the contents.

I was mocked for thinking I mattered, thinking I had value, could have value. “It’s been over 6 years since I committed my crime,” I said. I hoped to create space and distance in order to evidence my progress since then. The state’s attorney laughed scornfully, saying, “Yeah, the crime we know about. Who knows how many others you may be guilty of?!”

Suggesting my 6 years of incarceration had been spent committing additional crimes was ludicrous, and yet the courtroom laughed with him. Angry, I retorted, “Right back at you, buddy!” This did not help. 

I did not feel dead, yet how could I live without a future, without purpose? I consider these things now. Perhaps I believed winning this trial would confirm a future entry into society, one in which I was redeemed. As the trial progressed without even a token nod at the idea, I retreated emotionally, growing numb and silent.

The trial ended without an immediate decision. I doubt I felt much hope. I don’t remember. A few days later, just before the weekend, news arrived – my rights were terminated. Grief was immediate.

The following Thursday my attorney informed me that the judge’s decision would become official in a day or two. After that I was not to contact my son anymore.

I had desperately wanted to console my son and prepare ourselves for the future that would be. A week had passed in which I could have done just that, but no one had told me. The realization sunk in while I still had my attorney on the phone.

“Are you telling me I could have been talking to my son this whole week, and you didn’t inform me?!?” I yelled in outrage. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I screamed. My attorney scoffed, a quick huff, and immediately hung up, ignoring my pain.

My son Tim, now in his 20s, has shared with me his memories of that time. His 14th birthday was just weeks away. Living in a group home, he was looking forward to a special birthday party at home, with his dad and brothers. “Tim, phone’s for you!” he heard another teen calling out across the group home. He ran to answer it.

“Is this Tim?” a woman asked, as he picked up the phone. “Your parents’ rights have been terminated,” she stated coldly and then hung up. That was it, the one line. Your parents’ rights have been terminated.

Tim stared at the phone in his hand. The birthday party would never happen. It would be more than two years before I talked with Tim again.