My Son Was Executed

Michael was born in 1963, ten months into a disastrous marriage. I was young and immature, not ready for the responsibility of a baby. Too much was already wrong in my life. My husband was an alcoholic who frequently gave me beatings, even violently kicking me in the stomach while I was pregnant; it didn't matter to him whether I was pregnant or not when he flew into one of his violent rages.

The whole time I was pregnant he continued to go out with "the boys." The result of his abuse and neglect of me was that I resented being pregnant and therefore resented my unborn baby. Michael's birth didn't improve circumstances, of course. My husband continued to go out, but by now I knew that it wasn't "the boys" he was seeing.

As Michael grew here in Texas, I noticed a strong resemblance to his father who was becoming increasingly violent. Because Michael looked so much like his father, I resented him more and more. Though the most violent beatings were reserved for me, Michael came in for his own share of abuse. I remember one incident that happened when Michael was still a baby. He toddled over to his sleeping father and tugged on his hair. His father jumped up and yanked the baby's hair so hard that Michael screamed. "There!" he roared at Michael. "That will teach you!"

The violence and abuse continued, and in May of 1966 Michael's brother Shawn was born. For some reason still unknown to me, I wanted Shawn. Michael sensed this and resented him.