She was a Black woman with beautiful dark eyes, gentle hands, and an enormous collection of books.
She worked in education before becoming ill, and she believed children learned best when they felt safe enough to ask questions.
My brother remembered much more about her than I did.
He was ten when she died.
I was five.
The illness came gradually. At first, there were doctor's appointments and days when she seemed unusually tired. Then there were hospital stays, whispered conversations in the hallway, and a series of changes nobody explained to me in language I could fully understand.
I remember bringing her a drawing of our family.
My father stood on one side.
My brother stood on the other.
And I drew myself between them, holding both their hands.
My mother kept the picture beside her hospital bed.
She told me it was beautiful.
Then she made me promise something.
"Always remember how loved you are."
I nodded because I wanted to make her happy.
I didn't understand that she was saying something she hoped would remain with me after she couldn't say it anymore.
She died several months later.
Our house changed immediately.
My father stopped playing music in the kitchen.
My brother became quieter.
And I began sleeping with one of my mother's sweaters folded beneath my pillow because it still smelled like her.
My father tried.
I know that now.
He held us when we cried, attended our school events when he could, and spent evenings looking through photographs with us. But grief affected him differently from the way it affected us.
My brother became protective.
I became clingy.
My father became busy.
He buried himself in his construction company, taking on larger projects and spending longer hours away from home. He told himself he was securing our future, and in many ways, he was.
Our house was beautiful.
We had good schools, comfortable bedrooms, and never worried about whether there would be food in the kitchen.
But sometimes a child doesn't need a bigger house.
Sometimes she needs her father to sit on the edge of her bed and listen when she says she's scared.
My father understood that too late.
And my stepmother learned how to use his absence before he did.