One day, Nicholas called the SisterHearts number and spoke with Anthony, a member of our staff. His girlfriend had been arrested, and he was alone with their four-month-old baby boy—crying in the background.

Soon, I would see his name on the news.

Nicholas was not a monster. He was a father—a proud one. He showed us photos and videos of his son with joy and wonder in his voice. We knew Nicholas from the Day Reporting Center, where SisterHearts offers its Decarceration Program—a healing journey for individuals on probation and parole.

Nicholas struggled with mental health. He was fragile—haunted. Some days, it seemed like he was breaking through. Other days, the shadows returned. That’s what prison trauma does. It doesn’t end at the prison gate. It begins there.

Also, Nicholas first entered the correctional system because of circumstances that would have been better treated in a mental-health setting. Data for years has shown that when family members feel overwhelmed or worried for a loved one’s safety, the only resource that will come to them is police officers. That often leads to arrest, which leads to jail or prison, which adds trauma that makes a person even more unstable upon release.

Another day, he called Anthony at the thrift store, overwhelmed. Then he called me. I could hear the baby crying. I could hear Nicholas unraveling. The fear in his voice. The weight. The helplessness.

I begged him to let someone else help. I offered to take the baby myself. But before I could reach him, the phone cut off.

I called every contact I had: probation officers, DRC staff. I pleaded for his address. No one could give it to me. We couldn’t get to him in time.

The baby’s death is not just a tragedy—it’s an indictment.
An indictment of silence.
Of systems that knew he was unraveling, but looked away.
Of staff who pushed paper instead of opening doors.
Of programs capable of intervention, but stripped of power and told to stand down.

A few weeks later, I woke up to the headline: Father charged in the death of four-month-old son. My heart sank like it was falling out of my chest.

Anthony later told me:
“He had the love part figured out—but not the part of caring for another life. He was overly emotional and impulsive.”

Nicholas had called 911. The baby was unconscious. He told the police the baby had fallen off the bed. He later texted Anthony photos of the baby in the ICU, hooked up to machines.

“He was searching for anything—insight, hope, direction,” Anthony said. “He told me his son trusted him … and how he let him down.”

The baby died 10 days later from a brain bleed.

I’m not excusing what happened.
I’m making a declaration: Nicholas was not the only one who failed.

This was a preventable loss.
A call to conscience.
To every case manager following protocol.
To every agency deflecting responsibility.
To every official claiming to care.
Let this be the last time a cry like this goes unheard.

This baby’s cry will not be buried.
It will echo—through systems, through policy, through us.
It will fuel the awakening of the decarceration movement.

Maryam Henderson-Uloho is the founder of the SisterHearts Decarceration Program, which rehumanizes individuals suffering from the trauma of incarceration and guides them through a process of healing and transformation.