This is the home where I was born in Chihuahua, Mexico. It was originally built out of stones, so we called it “the rock house.” But later someone finished the outside to make it look more “normal” and painted it bright blue. If only walls could talk . . .
Whenever my mother was with us, she always made sure a photo was taken of her children. I love this one from 1972 because of our smiles . . . and because of the cloth diapers filling the clothesline. Left to right: Mom (holding Hyrum on her hip), Heber, me hidden in the shadow next to Kathleen, Marilyn, Celia.
My sister Celia (on the right) and me in front of our home.
Family photo taken in Houston in 1981 right before my father died in prison, leaving my mom to care for many of his fatherless and motherless children. Back: Virginia, Manuel, Celia, me, Mom, Megan, June, Amy, Sean. Front: Hyrum, Eric, Adine, Tiffany.
My mother and Rosemary, sister-wives of Ervil. They were both redheads and had their differences, but they did their best to get along. Taken in Houston, 1982.
Ramona and Faye, full sisters, both married to Dan Jordan as teenagers, making them sister-wives as well.
Rena and Lillian on Rena’s wedding day in Houston, 1981. Rena was originally married to my father —and she even killed for him —but later “divorced” him so she could marry her current husband, John.
A rare photo of my mother and father together. Chihuahua, Mexico, mid-1960s.
My half-brother Ed and me, all dressed up for church, which was held in Mark and Lillian’s finished-out garage.
Lillian in 1982, shortly after I ran away from home to live with her. Houston, the Campbell Road house.
My half-brother Ed with his favorite truck outside Reliance Appliance, where we all worked. Ed was killed during “The Four O’Clock Murders” in June 1988, along with Mark Chynoweth, Duane Chynoweth, and Duane’s daughter Jenny. Houston, early 1980s.
Various children and grandchildren of Ervil LeBaron at his gravesite. It was a complicated grieving process for us all, as we lost a father we’d never really had in the first place.
My father’s mugshot from 1979, when the Mexican authorities turned him over to the FBI on murder and conspiracy charges.
Shortly after the funeral, a gravestone was laid. As an adult, seeing the words “Beloved Father” makes my heart ache because the description isn’t true. For me, it is a stark reminder that I grew up fatherless.
One of the last photos of my mother and me before I ran away in 1982. My shirt reads “Daddy’s Girl,” revealing my heart’s true desire.
After I ran away to join them, Mark and Lillian enrolled me in a Christian school in Houston. At only thirteen, this decision would change the trajectory of my entire life.
Even after I escaped the cult, its shadows still haunted me. Here, celebrating my half-brother Tony’s wedding and dressed to the nines, I couldn’t hide the tumult going on inside my heart.
Me at the Campbell Road house, where Reliance Appliance was located at the time. I worked every day after school and all day Saturday the entire time I lived with Mark and Lillian. Whenever they went on vacation, I felt a sense of freedom: Though I had to manage the store, I could also call my boyfriend, David, a strictly prohibited activity.
Following Lillian’s death in 1989, I became severely depressed. My former youth pastor came to visit and encourage me. I will always be grateful to him for leading me to the one true Christ.
An aerial photo of Reliance Appliance, the place where Mark was gunned down in his office by cult members. If you look carefully, you can see the ramp we used to bring appliances into and out of the showroom —and later where the coroners would wheel Mark’s body down on a gurney. This image, spread all over the news, haunts me still.
A candid photo on the day of the combined funeral for Mark, Ed, Duane, and Jenny. It was a dark, dark time of grieving for all of us.
One of the last family photos of Mark and Lillian with all six of their children. After Mark’s murder and later, Lillian’s suicide, their children struggled to piece their lives back together.
Having children of my own was powerfully redemptive, in light of my upbringing. After having three boys in a row, I was delighted to have my own daughter —I often dressed Kristina in outfits to match mine!
My children loved playing with my sister Celia’s children. Watching them grow up together brings beautiful restoration from our own fractured childhood.
My family in 1998, soon after my last child, Hannah (in Granny’s arms) was born. My mother-in-love, Sandra, lived with us for seven years. We get along well to this day, and she was a great help to me as I was raising my children.
Today my children, surrounding me here, are all grown. To see them succeed and mature is one of my biggest and most treasured accomplishments. It hasn’t always been easy, but it has always been worth it. They have my heart forever.
Recently, Wendy Walters invited me to share my story at the Release the Writer conference as an alumnus. I love being able to use my experiences to help others.
In July 2016, I went to visit my mother, who still believes in polygamy and lives with two of her sister-wives. Reading my manuscript to her was difficult for both of us, but for me, it was the culmination of a long journey to freedom and healing.
Q&A WITH ANNA LEBARON
Q: Looking back, what was your scariest moment of living in a polygamist cult?
A: You want me to pick just one? All of them combined is the reason I don’t watch movies that fall into the horror, thriller, or suspense categories —I lived that! Narrowing it down, one of the scariest moments was being forced to go door to door in Mexico selling slices of cake. I was well aware that American children were being kidnapped. Every time I ventured out onto the streets, I knew I was vulnerable. I felt the anxiety in the pit of my stomach.
Q: Was there a specific moment when you began to have a personal relationship with God? How did you separate the true God from the one you had been raised to worship?