The pain was heart-crushing.
On Tuesday, August 29, 2023, my daughter called with news I never wanted to hear: my mother had passed away.
We had our disagreements over the years. Sometimes we clashed hard. But she was my mother. I loved her. And through everything, she was always there for us.
Almost three years later, she still occupies a permanent place in my heart.
Some of my fondest memories of my mother happened during the summer.
Every year, she took us to the forest preserve. We barbecued, played soccer, and walked the wooded trails together. I still remember the scent of the trees, the birds singing overhead, and the crackling of sticks beneath our feet.
Even though we lived in the city, my mother belonged outdoors.
Something about nature transformed her. In the forest preserve, she seemed calm, grounded, and completely at peace.
And when I lost interest in reading in sixth grade, my mother noticed immediately, even though I never said a word about it.
One day, she took me to a small library that had been created inside a donated house. I found a quiet table and sat down while she wandered across the squeaky wooden floor searching the shelves.
A few minutes later, she returned holding a book about the Bermuda Triangle.
I was hooked.
I couldn’t put it down.
That single moment reignited my love for reading — a love that has stayed with me throughout my life.
My mother was a single parent for most of my childhood and all of my teenage years. Somehow, she balanced work, parenting, discipline, and faith with what seemed like ease to me as a child.
She was college educated and encouraged us to pursue higher education ourselves. She believed deeply in structure, responsibility, and faith. Church was never optional in our home. If the doors were open, we were there.
She was strong-willed, confident, and naturally took charge wherever she went. Making friends seemed effortless for her.
She also believed in cleanliness with near-military precision.
Nothing stayed out of place for long. Cleaning was never something to postpone until later. Healthy living mattered to her too. On Saturday mornings, if I didn’t have a track meet, we walked laps together around the track at a nearby college.
Later in life, her greatest joy became her granddaughter and great-grandson. Anyone who saw them together could immediately recognize how deeply she loved them.
Toward the end of her life, we lived in different states.
What still hurts me is that no one told me she was battling cancer — not even her. By the time I learned the truth, hospice care was already being arranged in her home.
When I went to see her, the house felt unusually quiet.
She slept most of the time. The soft hum of oxygen filled the room while family members spoke in whispers nearby. For a brief moment, she opened her eyes and recognized me.
Then she drifted back to sleep.
My one regret is that I never got the chance to tell her I loved her before she passed away.
But before cancer entered her life, my mother truly lived.
And she lived it well.