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Ode: I was a single mother of six, establishing a career in my 30s without a high school diploma

Shandell Inlay
Ally Karsyn

I learned about persistence the day my husband went to prison.

He was facing up to 97 years behind bars for insurance fraud. It was all over the news. Without his income, we couldn’t pay our bills. The bank began foreclosing our home and repossessing vehicles.

I didn’t know what to do.

When I met my husband, I was 16, going on 17, with dreams of becoming a detective. He was 25 and divorced with two kids. That didn’t scare me because I come from a blended, biracial family.

When I saw him in the furniture store, making a sales pitch to my mom, I didn’t catch his name. So when I called the store a few days later, I asked them to leave my number for the good-looking guy with a buzzcut and a great smile.

Within three months, I was pregnant.

I dropped out of school to get married when I was 17. I needed my parents’ consent, and they gave it. I think they were scared of losing me if they didn’t. But no one wanted that wedding to take place. One of my sisters kept saying, “You can have a baby without getting married.”

One of my best friends had a baby when she was 15, and I’d seen her struggle as a single mother, working as a waitress. I didn’t want that.

I wanted a husband and a house with a white picket fence. I wanted what looked good on the outside but wasn’t necessarily good on the inside. I didn’t listen to my sister. Instead, I clung to the words of my southern grandmother who said, “No matter what, family’s family. You don’t give up. You fix it.”

So, when my husband went to prison, I had no intention of filing for divorce.

A few weeks into his 5-year sentence, I got a letter in the mail. From a woman. She said her ex-husband had been manufacturing marijuana with my husband. Out of our home. For more than a year.

Her ex wouldn’t bring her daughter back after visitation, she said. If I didn’t help her get an attorney, she was going to tell the police about the pot.

That was fine with me. I went to the police with this letter as soon as I finished reading it. Some DEA agents went over to the house. They found drug paraphernalia in the attic of the garage. That wasn’t enough evidence to file charges for anything more than a simple misdemeanor.

I went to my husband to get answers. He was a white man who had committed a white-collar crime. He was serving his time in a minimum security prison. He walked into the visitation room wearing a white T-shirt and jeans.

We sat down at one of the tables, surrounded by guards and other inmates and their families. I tried to keep my voice down but I wanted to yell and scream when he admitted everything. Both of us could have gone to prison. Our kids could have been put in foster care.

That was it. I wanted a divorce.

Then, reality sunk in: I was going to be a single mother of six, trying to establish a career in my 30s without a high school diploma. I felt like such a failure.

My dad had helped me find a home. I just needed a job. Fast. And, I needed something that would pay more than minimum wage.

I landed on insurance agent—the profession my husband worked in before he went to prison. It offered flexible hours; it paid well; and it didn’t require a college degree.

All I had to do was a pay a fee, complete a training course and pass an exam to get my license. Sounds simple, right? Well, after not being in school for nearly two decades, it was hard. I had to take the exam three times before I passed.

I leaned on my faith and it kept me going. I even met a nice man at church. We dated for a couple months but decided to end it since I wasn’t legally divorced—not yet. I wrote about our short-lived relationship in a small lilac-covered notebook that I kept by my bed, my own conversations with God.

My husband was released from prison after six months. We finalized our divorce five days later, on Christmas Eve. Even though we weren’t married anymore, I wanted him to be as involved as possible. So, we still ate every meal together, and he’d often spend the night at my house, sleeping on the couch.

When I wasn’t home, he had free run of the place. I didn’t think I had anything to hide.

With him around all the time, of course we talked about reconciling. But one day, he went through the house and found my lilac-covered notebook. He read it and took it to the church leaders. They read it, too. I had to meet with them, and they said I couldn’t lead the youth program anymore because I’d dated this other man while my husband was in prison.

After that, I didn’t go to church for more than a year.

In the fallout, my husband started seeing someone without telling me. And he got her pregnant. We ended up in an ugly custody battle. Every time he came to get the kids, I’d have to call the police. Eventually, we had to start doing exchanges at the police station.

Finally, I went back to my childhood church, to Mt. Zion. It was like going home, and that’s where you go when everything is falling apart. My faith pulled me through, and I’ve come a long way in the past six years. I won sole custody of the kids, and I got a good job as an insurance agent.

At the end of the day, I have to keep going. I have to provide for my kids. I have to set an example.

I want my two sons to grow up to be honorable men. And I want my daughters to know that they don’t need someone to take care of them. I want them to be smart. I want them to be ready for anything. And when something bad happens, I want them to know it’s okay to fall down but not to give up.

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Shandell Inlay works in the insurance business. She was born and raised in Sioux City. She spends most of her time at one of the many activities her kids are involved in. She also loves to volunteer at her church in the youth department.

Ode is a storytelling series where community members tell true stories on stage to promote positive impact through empathy.

Our next show is Friday, June 1 at The Marquee, 1225 Fourth St., in downtown Sioux City. The theme is “Belonging.”

 

The show starts at 7 p.m. with live music. There will also be a community art project on display inspired by stories of standing out, fitting in and finding your way.

Tickets are $10 in advance; $15 day of show.

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