large plaid shirt, baggy pants, and black
Crocs, ambled across the street, some
yellow envelopes in his right hand, his
left arm swinging wildly. His head shone
in the sun.
He looked nervous, and as he hit
the other side, Zach emerged from the
crowd and walked toward his father. Ed
seemed about to shake his son’s hand,
but Zach opened his arms, and the two
men fell into each other, son burying
his head in his father’s shoulder. The
crowd sniffled in the heat. “Don’t leave
me again,” whispered Zach. “I won’t,”
his dad responded. When Ed unwound
himself from Zach, he went to Kim and
held her for a long time. Then he hugged
Kyra, who was crying openly.
After that, Ruff approached. “Hey,
brother,” he said, and the two men em-
braced. He was followed by a succession
of pen pals and total strangers. Ed, who
wore a half smile, seemed happy but
overwhelmed. “I love you, sweetheart,”
said one as she hugged him. “I’ve been
praying for you,” said another. All Ed
could do was say, “Thank you,” occa-
sionally adding, “It means a lot.”
Kim drove the family back to Dallas,
with Ed in the passenger seat. They held
hands most of the way. Ed often turned
to look back at Kyra watching TV on
her laptop and Zach playing with his
smartphone. Now fifty, he had seen
modern technology like that only on
the prison TV, in shows and commer-
cials where kids sat in backseats glued
to their devices while the parents sat up
front—and now he was living it. They
stopped for gas at a Buc-ee’s, and Ed was
dumbfounded at the rows of automatic
toilets and faucets in the men’s room.
When Ed walked into the Cedar Hill
home that Kim had bought in 2006, he
couldn’t believe the high ceilings, the
luxurious brown couch, the big-screen
TV. Kim had assured him that it was
his home too, but he was having a hard
time accepting it. There were photos
of her and the kids everywhere; he was
present in only a couple of prints, from
their wedding.
The first thing he wanted to do was
take a shower and put on his own
clothes—Kim had recently gone shop-
ping for him—then eat a seafood platter.
Since parole restrictions barred him
from going to a restaurant, Kyra fried
a plate of catfish filets. Other family
members and friends began arriving—acousin from Tyler with her kids, a cous-
in from Dallas, Kelvin and his son, and
Ruff. Ed ate nine filets.
The next morning, he woke up at
5:30 and opened Zach’s door. “Zach,” he
said, “what are you doing?” Zach, who
had been sound asleep, sat up groggily.
“Nothing. What are you doing?” His
father replied, “I just came to check on
you.” Ed checked on Kyra too, waking
her up. Soon everyone was in the kitch-
en making breakfast. Later that day he
walked from room to room, as if making
sure everything was real.
Kim drove him to check in with his
parole officer. He had to report every
Tuesday morning and submit to a week-
ly urinalysis (he’s not allowed to drink).
He wore a GPS monitor, which went
off if he ventured beyond the propertylines at an unscheduled time. He had to
clear every move in advance, whether it
was going to church or going shopping
with Kim.
Ruff stuck around for a few days. “I
ain’t never had a lot of friends,” said
Ed. But the two had an easy rapport
and sat on the couch talking like old
Army buddies, watching TV, discussing
football. They stayed up late one night
preparing a slab of ribs; the next day
they smoked them and had a cookout.
Ed found himself touching Kim and the
kids all the time. He also kept asking
Kim for permission—to get some water,
to turn on the TV. “This is your home,”
she’d reply. “You don’t have to ask.”
When they all went to church for the
first time, Kim dressed them in varying
shades of purple. Worshipping togeth-
er was a dream of hers, something she
had wanted to do for years. “We are a
family,” she said. “We are one.”
In Ed’s first weeks home, he estab-
lished a new routine: rise at 5:30, brew
coffee in his new Keurig machine, and
putter around the house and backyard.
On Saturday mornings he washed thefamily’s cars, going over every inch. He
watched football and walked Charlie,
the family’s Yorkshire terrier. If a pic-
ture needed hanging, Ed fetched the
hammer. “He’d been dying to be a hus-
band and a father for twenty years,”
said Ruff, who talked with Ed weekly.
“He finally had the chance.” Ed and Kim
hosted several get-togethers for family
and friends, where Ed did the cooking,
as his grandmother did in the old days.
Kim had told him he could relax and
take his time finding a job, but Ed didn’t
want to sit around. Three weeks after
his release, he was loading trucks at a
UPS warehouse, and in November he
was hired by the City of Dallas water
department. By early 2019 he was part
of a three-man crew inspecting sewer
lines all over the city. He loved the work:
driving the truck, maneuvering a robot,
watching the monitor, reporting the
results.
In the months since, he has grown
a light beard, which came in salt-and-
pepper, and started wearing two square
diamond earrings that Kim bought him.
The family created a new photo wall in
the house, adding pictures of all four of
them—at church, at Christmas.
Sometimes, though, Ed still finds
himself eaten up by anger—that he
didn’t get to see his grandmother and
mother before they died, that he didn’t
get to see his kids grow up. There were
times in prison when he had trouble
remembering the faces of his kids. It
was terrifying and infuriating then—
and is still. He knows that some freed
prisoners have a hard time letting go of
their bitterness. “I don’t want to live like
that,” he says. “I’ve been mad enough.”
He’s learning firsthand that freedom
isn’t going to solve all of his problems.
Ed had worried about bonding with
his kids, mostly Zach. While Kyra sings
in the church choir and is planning
on going to medical school, Zach is
very much his father’s son. He rarely
smiles, and one of Ed’s hardest tasks
since getting out has been establishing
a rapport with him. It started off well: in
September Zach took Ed to his driver’s
test and, after he passed, asked wheth-
er he wanted to drive home. “I don’t
know,” said Ed. “You can do it,” replied
his son, and threw him the keys. When
Ed mowed the grass, Zach, who never
did yard work, brought out the Weed
eater and joined him.“I’M NEVER GOING TO
GET THOSE YEARS
BACK,” ED SAID. “I’M
GOING TO LIVE FOR
TODAY, MAKE EVERY
DAY COUNT.”104 TEXAS MONTHLY