At 10:40 P.M., my mother passed away at our home on 1034 Pumalo Street in San Bernardino, California, leaving us uncertain if anyone was by her side during her final moments.

My brother, George, and I spent the weekend with our Aunt Connie in Hayward.

I was nine years old, and George was six. I have faith that angels were with her in her last moments.

At 2:24 A.M., a piercing scream from my Aunt’s bedroom shattered the night.

It echoed through the entire house, a sound I’ll never forget.

I don’t know how my mother’s final breaths sounded.

Were they gasps or sighs? Was there a rhythm to her breathing? When did her last breath occur?

As I lay in bed, confused and scared, my uncle gently opened the door and whispered, “Oh… it’s just a bad dream. Go back to sleep.”

I searched the room, hoping to find some sign that it was all a dream. All I saw was my half-full cup of water by the bedside.

At that moment, I didn’t realize that everything I knew—life with my brother, our mother, our animals, friends, neighbors, our school, and our home—was over.

When I first envisioned this blog years ago, it was meant to be about me, my brother, and our mother: our lives together, our dreams, and our moments of connection. It was a family love story. Over the years, I learned that my mother’s love was just the beginning.

Her love opened a portal into a world of empathetic intuitiveness, teaching me to face darkness and find my way back to the light.

Writing this blog forced me to confront my demons.

For a long time, I thought the monster in my life was my dad, especially at his worst moments.

Then, I thought it was my stepmother, with her hateful and hurtful ways. Later, I believed the monster was me, with everything I couldn’t change about myself. I saw monsters everywhere and accepted that this would be my reality—a life of abuse, depression, and constant struggle.

I’ve faced harsh truths and kept many secrets, believing no one would believe, understand, or accept me. The facade of a fictional life felt like protection.

Exposing your deepest wounds for everyone to see and judge is hard. People came into my life, challenging me to confront my shadows and the truths I hid from everyone, including myself. I never wanted to say these things out loud, fearing they’d make me unlovable. Eventually, I accepted that I had bargained with the truth for too long.

The burden of carrying these secrets alone became unbearable. So, if you decide to read this blog, you are lucky!