Before My Son Killed a Man

A painful remembering of innocence lost

Before my son killed a man, I could love him without feeling guilty for it. I could worry about him without feeling like I had no right to care. I could be his mother without wearing the heavy cloak of shame and accusation that others draped around my shoulders.

Before my son killed a man, I could think about him without my heart shattering into a million pieces.

Long before my son killed a man, he was a happy little boy. A little boy who loved mac and cheese and hated vegetables. Hated them so much, in fact, that when he was about 4 years old, one laundry day I discovered the remnants of vegetable soup in the pockets of his overalls.

And before my son killed a man, he was a little boy who loved to laugh. I can still hear his uproarious belly laughs as he cracked up over the dumbest things. He would especially howl at his own “homemade” (and truly terrible) jokes. His four older siblings would often shake their heads and wonder what on earth their youngest brother could have possibly thought was so funny. He never cared; their confused expressions only made him laugh harder.

Twenty-seven years before my son killed a man, my eldest daughter (we’ll call her “Meg”) gave birth to him and called him Jacob. She had just turned 15.

Meg had been having behavioural issues since she was 3 years old. During her early years, my own life was somewhat chaotic, thanks to an abusive childhood, and I blamed myself relentlessly for her troubles. I sought whatever help I could get for my own problems, as well as for hers. But over the years, the situation only worsened, despite the many professional interventions and treatment programs I tried.

From the age of 12, she had been mostly living on the streets. At first, she was gone for weeks at a time, and then months on end. I never knew if she was dead or alive until the police would find her — yet again. But as soon as they released her, she was on the run once more.

When she was 14 and pregnant, she came back home. She settled down completely, was a model daughter and big sister to her three younger siblings. I hadn’t seen that side of her in years and for the first time since she was a tiny tot, I had hope that maybe — just maybe — all would be well and I’d have my daughter back — for good.

Early in Meg’s pregnancy, she had made an adoption plan with a couple who were to take the baby when he was 3 days old. But that plan fell through on Day 2 (through no fault of Meg’s). I was already busy raising children, with the fourth one, daughter Willow, being just 7 months old when Jacob was born. It made perfect sense for my then-husband (not Meg’s father) and me to step in and become this little boy’s legal parents.

We couldn’t have loved him more if we had created him ourselves.

Sadly, within weeks after Jacob’s birth, Meg reverted to her old ways and before long, she was gone again.

I had always wanted a house filled with children, and as my own experience as an adoptee had meant abuse and unhappiness, I was extra glad to keep Jacob in our family where I wouldn’t worry and wonder if he was safe and well. Eagerly, I settled into the role of his mother.

We added another sweet little Ikea crib to the nursery and enjoyed buying clothes and other goodies for our new son. With him and Willow, it was like having twins. I loved buying matching outfits for them when there were both girl and boy versions, and had such fun sewing Raggedy Ann and Andy costumes for the Hallowe’en party at a “mum and tots” group.

Long before my son killed a man, he was just a boy who loved bedtime songs and stories that included plenty of cuddles. Always affectionate, he was happy for hugs and generous with smiles.

We could never have imagined that we were raising a killer.

As a youngster, Jacob was always such a sunny child. When I look back on his early years, what I remember most is that bright smile and an infectious giggle that erupted from his belly so naturally, so easily. He was happy. Truly, honestly happy.

When he was about 3 years old, something seemed “off” with Jacob. His father and I found ourselves at the Children’s Hospital, where they tested and checked and questioned and tested some more. But there were no answers. No labels. Nothing specific or identifiable. Yet we knew all was not right with our boy.

Within a year or so, unwanted behaviours crept in. Lies. Sneaking. Stealing. The kinds of things many children will try a time or two, and with a gentle but firm, “No, darling, we don’t do these things and here’s why,” most of them decide to mind the rules rather than get in trouble.

Unless they are the kind of children who simply try harder not to get caught.

And just like his birth mother, this was the kind of child my son was becoming.

Before my son killed a man, he was a boy who loved camping, hot dogs, and ice cream. He grumbled about chores, making his bed, and having a bath. He loved chocolate chip cookies, his bike, and birthday parties.

His father and I divorced amicably and had equal time with the children. We lived near each other and co-parented extremely well, thereby minimising the impact on the children as much as possible. We did our best to maintain consistency. House rules and expectations were the same. Consequences for naughty behaviour at one home carried over to the other, although Jacob was generally the only one of the children for whom this was relevant.

Jacob was incredibly strong, a gifted athlete from the first time he set foot on a soccer field or picked up a baseball bat. He was an especially powerful swimmer and diver, and his instructor believed he had the makings of a champion. He was encouraged in these activities, and in maximising his potential, both at home and at school.

He received regular religious training, along with my other children, and enjoyed a wide circle of close friends through both parents. There were summer holidays, winter snowboarding days, playing-in-the-leaves days.

Many years before my son killed a man, we were happy to seek support and guidance informally from school and trusted friends as well as professionally, but you can only lead the proverbial horse to water…

Jacob’s undesirable behaviour escalated, as did our efforts to curb it. I’d had plenty of professional help and training with his birth mother over several years. But that experience had done nothing to stop her behaviour and it wasn’t working with Jacob either. According to the professionals, we were doing all the right things. But none of it made one iota of difference.

Long before my son killed a man, he loved sitting at our mid-1800s harvest table in the kitchen in the evenings, listening to me read chapters from the “Oz” books by L. Frank Baum. With a pot of tea and a plate of cookies, the whole family would gather round, delighting in these and other stories.

On Friday nights after Shabbat dinner (Jewish Sabbath) when the children could stay up a little later for some family time, we would often pull out the deck of Uno cards, which Jacob thoroughly enjoyed.

He did not, however, enjoy losing. He never got the hang of it being “just a game” and would become angry and frustrated when he didn’t win — or when he was pushed to do homework, or to take the consequences for behaviour that he knew was wrong. A simmering rage bubbled just below the surface; in hindsight, our first glimpses of what was to come. But how could we have ever imagined that one day, he would commit murder?

Long before my son killed a man, he was terrified of dogs. Even little ones made him cry if they ran playfully toward him. He had never been bitten or attacked by a dog, but fear never has to have a reason to live in your heart.

And as he grew, he instilled plenty of it in the hearts of his family as he became increasingly volatile.

I used to take my children for frequent walks by the river near our home. There was a huge, beautiful tree with a big “hole” in the trunk. It looked like a doorway, through which — if you were small enough — you could find your way inside the tree. Every time we passed it, I made up a new story about Mrs. Bunny. It was her doorway and she lived in a secret underground home. Each story was dependent upon the time of day or evening we were there.

Mrs. Bunny wore long, floral dresses that went all the way down to her feet. Her apron was nearly as long. She had spectacles and was often baking for her family. She might come out with a plate of cookies if we waited long enough. Or she was in a rocking chair, reading a bedtime story to her babies who were tucked into a big bed, all nice and cosy in the candlelight. Mr. Bunny was usually away at work or bringing home the carrots.

Years before my son killed a man, his behaviour escalated to a dangerous level. It was no longer safe to have him at home. In a frightening incident when he was 11, I had to call the police and after discussions with them, his father, and a social worker, Jacob ended up in a group home.

No more walks by the river, or Mrs. Bunny stories. No more Uno games or Oz books. No more Shabbat dinners, belly laughs or that bright, beautiful smile.

Over the next few years in group home facilities, Jacob’s life spiralled into an ever-worsening state. He did increasing lengths of time locked up (often for violent behaviour). But during a brief reprieve when he was 13, he wanted to turn his life around. And he wanted to spend a day with me.

I hadn’t seen my son in a long time. I hadn’t felt safe in his presence. But that day, I gave him my trust. I wanted desperately to give him a chance. To give us a chance. So for the first time in years, it would be just the two of us.

I told him we could do whatever he wanted. He opted for breakfast at McDonald’s to start, and then off we went to Heritage Park, one of our family’s favourite places to spend time.

It’s a historical village created with old buildings from various parts of Alberta, and celebrates our western Canadian heritage. We rode the steam train, took a gentle ride around the reservoir on the S.S. Moyie paddle wheeler from 1898, and enjoyed reacquainting ourselves with one another.

After lunch and an icy cold sarsaparilla at the old Wainwright Hotel, we spotted a man dressed up in an early RCMP uniform from over 100 years ago. Jacob was excited to have his picture taken with this man.

And although my son had been troubled for years by that point, I couldn’t have possibly imagined that one day, he would be the shocking subject of a picture taken by the RCMP:

That horrible, awful moment when I first saw this terrible photo is forever burned into my soul … every thought of my son, every mention, a searing pain that screams into the hole in my life where my sunny little boy used to be.

His beautiful, laughing eyes, once so bright and blue are now black, cold and dead.

Having spent a handful of hours at Heritage Park, the awkwardness between us had dissolved. Tensions had vanished. I couldn’t remember when we had last enjoyed each other’s company.

Jacob asked if we could go for a walk along the river, just as we’d done countless times while he was growing up. We hadn’t been there together for a few years, not since before that frightening incident that had seen him in the back of a police car and forever removed from my care.

As we made our way along the path, there were hesitant steps by each of us toward understanding … perhaps a first drop or two of glue in contemplation of repair. I dared put my arm around my son’s shoulders. He didn’t shrug it off. Gently, I pulled him a little closer as we continued down the path. There wasn’t a lot to say. Our silence hung in the autumn breeze, bittersweet, tender, hopeful.

And as we rounded a bend and looked ahead, there stood Mrs. Bunny’s tree. Taller, grander, sturdier than ever. As always, I offered a story about her, what she must be doing in the late afternoon of that pretty October day. Surely, she was cooking a hearty root vegetable stew for her little ones and perhaps there was a pumpkin pie in the oven. Gazing at the “front door” to her house, we smiled and wondered if this might be the time she would appear with that plate of cookies we were certain she’d just baked.

Jacob wandered closer to the riverbank. Intuitively, I remained where I was. I suspected that after a few hard years in his own private hell and away from his family, he needed a moment of quiet contemplation.

I watched him, my throat aching as I choked back floods of tears. I’d have given anything to make him be that sweet, sunny little boy again. I longed to scoop up that precious child in the high chair, hold him close and go back to before … before it all went so horribly wrong … and hold him there forever so nothing bad would happen to him … or because of him.

I prayed for my boy in that moment. Prayed that he would see the terrible path he was on, that he would see his many gifts and the possibilities that were stretched out in front of him. I prayed that whatever inner demons were driving him, he would choose to fight them and win, no matter what.

I took the opportunity to capture that beautiful, painful moment of my prayers — and perhaps his own — there, by Mrs. Bunny’s tree, that small piece of a long-ago ghost of a life he and I once shared. It would be the last photo I would ever take of him. And it would be the last day I ever saw him, the last time I ever spent with him before … before he picked up that sawed off shotgun … before he went into that house … before my son killed a man.

Read more of this story and about the murder here: