I never realized just how meticulous—and deeply emotional—my father truly was.
I’m the youngest of three siblings. I have two older brothers. My mom passed away when I was just over a year old—before I could even say “Mommy.” Three years later, Dad remarried. Her name was Linda. She was petite, quiet, and soft-spoken.
It was Linda who raised me. I was a sickly little four-year-old, barely growing, and she patiently fed me oatmeal spoon by spoon. She took me to preschool, waited outside after class every day, and when I began first grade, she was so proud you’d think I was her own child.
