Our Story In My Own Words

In Lawrence County, I watched my daughter Trinity speak up in front of adults and officials and say that Dean was innocent of what they were accusing him of. I was there. I heard her. I remember the tone of her voice, the way the room felt, and the way my heart was pounding.

Later, when I realized that her words were not properly recorded or treated as they should have been, it felt like a piece of our truth had been stolen. From my point of view, it wasn’t just a mistake in the paperwork. It felt like people in power chose not to fully hear her.

Over time, I started to feel the pressure closing in on us. It wasn’t just one thing. It was the way people talked to us, the choices officials made, and the way Dean seemed to be treated like a problem instead of a person.

I began to feel like we weren’t safe. It didn’t feel like a place where the truth was welcome. It felt like we were being pushed into a corner, and no matter how much we tried to explain, the story had already been written without us.

When things escalated, leaving the United States was not some grand plan. It was survival. It was packing what we could, holding onto the kids, and stepping out into the unknown because staying felt more dangerous than going.

Crossing into Canada with Dean, Trinity, and Deanna was terrifying and strangely peaceful at the same time. Terrifying, because we had no idea what our future would look like. Peaceful, because for the first time in a long time, I felt like maybe we could breathe without looking over our shoulders every second.

After Dean was released from what I believe was a period of false imprisonment, there was a moment I will never forget. Trinity and Dean were together again. This wasn’t a rumor or something whispered later. We saw it with our own eyes.

From my perspective, these people were there and witnessed Trinity and Dean together after his release:

• Seth
• Jeanine
• Linda, my mother-in-law
• David, my brother-in-law
• Brandon
• Dean and me (Tamera) ourselves

Watching them interact in that moment was eye-opening for me. The way Trinity moved around him, the way she looked at him—it did not match the picture that had been painted in the accusations. That day became a permanent part of why I still believe the official story was incomplete or deeply wrong.

It wasn’t just Dean and me who felt the weight of all this. Little by little, I started to see the stress and the targeting spill over onto people connected to us. My family members felt it. Our relationships were strained. Some people stood by us anyway. Others pulled away because it was too much or too dangerous.

From inside the situation, it felt like anyone who stood too close to us, or dared to believe our side of the story, risked becoming a target too. That kind of pressure changes how you look at the world.

Now we are in Canada, and every day is a mixture of exhaustion and hope. I’m still a mom. I’m still a wife. I still make meals, worry about the kids, and try to find small moments of peace. But under all of that is the constant awareness of what we left behind and why.

I reach out to people I trust—like Grandma Nancy and others who have shown me love—to ask for prayers, emotional support, and understanding. I don’t expect everyone to fully know what we’ve been through, but it matters to me that our story exists somewhere, in my own words, so that one day our children can look back and see more than just a case file. They can see a mother who tried to protect them and tell the truth the best way she knew how.