Meet Destiny

Before I was incarcerated, life was about surviving and taking care of my family, just like anybody else trying to raise kids and make ends meet. I didn’t come from a big family myself, so my dream was always to build one of my own. Doctors told me it would be hard for me to have children, but by the grace of God, I had four. That’s all I ever wanted: my kids, my mom, my brother, and my husband, Moses. That was my world.

Then everything changed the day our three-year-old son, Tidus, fell from the window

We had repeatedly informed the landlord and the maintenance man that the window was broken and missing a screen. At least ten people knew we’d reported it. But nothing was ever fixed. They even told us that if we tried to repair it ourselves, we’d be breaking our lease and could face eviction. We did our best to keep our kids safe.

That morning, I had come home late from a double shift. I was exhausted and sick, and I didn’t even know yet that I was pregnant. Moses was downstairs, once again discussing the window with the landlord. I was in the bathroom throwing up when he called me from downstairs and said, “Check on the kids.” I walked into the room, and my son said, “Mommy, Tidus fell.”

I can still hear myself screaming. I ran out, banging on my neighbor’s door, yelling for them to watch the kids. When I reached the elevator, I remember telling myself to breathe and keep moving. When I reached the ground floor, I saw the landlady. I screamed at her, “All you had to do was do your job right!” If she had done her job, my baby would still be here.

And instead of compassion, we were treated like criminals.

The police took our other kids and lied to our neighbor, and said we knew they were taking them. I had just lost my son, and now my babies were gone too. I didn’t even know where they were for hours. Then, not long after, a SWAT team showed up like we were dangerous people. It was humiliating. It was devastating.

When they took me to jail, the conditions were worse than I could have ever imagined. The food was moldy, literally rotting, and the water barely worked. I was pregnant and sick, and they refused to give me what I needed. I remember banging on the door, screaming that I needed help and water. I’ve never acted like that in my life, but they pushed me to the point of desperation. The holding cell smelled like urine. Mold everywhere. Used toilet paper on the floor. No one cared.

I was on lockdown because they said it was for “my own safety.” They barely checked on me. We get one hour outside a day. It felt like we were forgotten, like we were less than human. And before all this, I was one of those people who thought, “Well, maybe they shouldn’t have done the crime.” But being in there, I met people who were just like me, people who the system had failed. I learned how easily this could happen to anyone.

My husband and I had bail of $10,000 each. When the Reale Justice Network came through to bail us out, I cried. Many friends and even family members didn’t show up for us, but strangers did. That meant everything. Without them, I genuinely don’t think I’d be alive. I couldn’t keep food down. If I’d stayed there, I might not have made it.

When we got out, we needed a place to live and jobs so we could start rebuilding our lives. But nobody would hire us, nobody would rent to us. We’ve always worked hard and never had problems finding work before, but now it’s been almost two years of doors closing in our faces.

The media twisted everything. They tried to pit my husband and me against each other. They made it sound like we were neglectful, like we didn’t care for our kids. That couldn’t be further from the truth. My son’s death was an accident. We begged for help. We were planning to move. Our kids were loved, safe, and cared for. They mistook poverty for neglect. They saw a Black family struggling and decided we didn’t deserve empathy.

Destiny and Moses’ children.

Moses (left) and Destiny (right).

My children have been through a great deal. My six-year-old saw his little brother fall. He’s heard the lies. He used to want to be a cop. Now he can’t stand them. He tells people, “My parents aren’t monsters.” No child should have to say that. We’ve missed years we can never get back. We should have been grieving, not fighting for our lives.

After two long years, we finally got our kids back this November. Now, we’re taking the next step: suing the apartment complex and the window company. For twenty years, they ignored complaint after complaint. Maybe this time, someone will finally be held accountable.

If I could go back, I’d take every struggle I ever went through, all the pain, all the hardship, if it meant I could bring my son back. This has been life-altering. It’s like waking up in your worst nightmare every day, hoping it’ll change, and it never does. 

We are not monsters. We are parents who love their children and were failed by a system that refuses to see the difference between poverty and neglect.