My mother, Delia, and my sister, Cynthia, were always chasing bad men and worse decisions. And me? I was the quiet one. A shadow in the chaos. A child born into noise but made of silence.
Then one day, when I turned six, Grandma Grace showed up, packed a small bag with my things, and said simply, “You’re coming home with me, Tom.”
I did. Because home wasn’t a place—it was her.
She was a loving, supportive presence—always there for important moments, making sacrifices for my future, and commanding respect through quiet strength.
