Chapter 1

Before the Storm

Before life taught me how much a heart could break, it taught me how to love.

I was a child of sunshine and open skies, where summers stretched long and laughter carried through the neighborhood like music. Ours was a small hometown where everyone knew everyone — where neighbors waved when they passed by, and any story worth telling made its way across town before supper.

At the heart of that little world was my mother.

She wasn’t just my mom — she was everybody’s mom. Family, friends, neighbors, even strangers — she cared for them all. There was always a pot of coffee on and something cooking on the stove, just in case someone stopped by. She carried people the way some carry faith — steady, tireless, and with a kind of grace that seemed endless.

Our home was full — not just with love, but with people.

I had thirty-four cousins who came and went like a revolving door, filling our days with noise, laughter, and chaos. Only five of them were male, which made sense, because our family was run by women. Strong, fierce, stubborn women who could weather any storm and still find the strength toput dinner on the table.

It was a matriarch’s world, built on resilience, humor, and heart.

My mother, my aunts, my grandmother — they were the backbone of everything. They loved deeply and fought hard. They taught me that tears didn’t mean weakness and that sometimes survival was the loudest kind of victory.

And in the middle of all that energy and emotion was my father — quiet, steady, and unshakably kind.

He wasn’t a man of many words, but when he spoke, you listened. He didn’t bark orders or demand obedience. He offered guidance, perspective, and trust. He believed that people needed room to grow — and that sometimes the best way to teach was to let someone fall and figure out how to get back up.

He was the balance to the women’s fire — the silent pillar holding us steady when emotions ran high. His love didn’t come in grand gestures; it was in the calm of his voice, the weight of his hand on your shoulder, the steady presence that said, I’m here, and you’ll be okay.

Our house saw more than its fair share of life — and death.

My great-uncle lived with us when I was young, and hislaughter became part of the rhythm of the house. When he passed away in our home, I watched my mother sit by his bedside until his last breath. She whispered comfort until the end, showing me what compassion really looked like.

When my dad’s father — my grandfather — died, it was in our home too. The air that day felt heavy and reverent, as if the house itself understood what was happening.

Then came the night of the phone call — the one that changed everything.

My brother was in New York, chasing life in the fast lane, fearless as ever. It was late when the call came — that sound slicing through the quiet of the house. The words on the other end didn’t seem real. I remember my mother’s scream, the way my father went silent, and the feeling that the world had stopped turning.

That was the only time in my life I truly lost control.

I punched walls, broke things, tore at the air like maybe I could fight the truth itself. My hands bled, but I didn’t care. It was rage, heartbreak, disbelief — all crashing together until I didn’t know where one feeling ended and the next began.

After that, I was different. We all were.

But even in that grief, my mother still found the strength toBut even in that grief, my mother still found the strength to care for everyone else. My father stood like stone — not cold, but unmovable. His silence became my safety.

Not long after, my mother’s father — the grandfather I adored — lost his battle with cancer, also in our home. I can still see the soft light from his room fading as he slipped away. He was gentle and kind, the sort of man who made you believe goodness was real. Letting him go left an emptiness I’ve never quite filled.

In our family, grief was familiar, but love was constant. The women taught me how to keep moving; my father taught me when to stand still. Together, they gave me everything I’d need for the battles ahead — even the ones I didn’t know were coming.

Before the storm, I was surrounded by love — fierce, imperfect, enduring love.

Those roots, those people, those lessons — they became the reason I survived everything that came next.