I woke as the sun began to rise, unsettled by the knowledge that my aunt had been heard sobbing and screaming during the night.

I wasn’t panicked—no one wakes expecting to learn that their mother has died.

I noticed my uncle Chuck quietly making phone calls. When I asked if we could call my mom that morning, a flicker of alarm crossed his face. Then the doorbell rang.

My father, our church’s youth pastor, and my Grandpa Bell entered the living room and sat down together, composed and deliberate. George and I were told to stay in the kitchen and finish our breakfast. I had no idea that the moment we were waiting for would alter everything. I kept eating, unaware, as events quietly unfolded in the next room.

The night before had been the last time sleep would come easily for a long while—the last time my dreams would remain untouched.

This ordinary morning would become the one I returned to again and again, the final version of life as I had known it.

As George and I stood at the kitchen window watching the morning light, we crossed into a new chapter of our barely begun lives—where dreams fall away, and something far darker takes their place.

When breakfast was finished, I knew something was wrong. My mother’s morning call had not come.

My father—whom we had not seen in years—was sitting in my aunt’s family room.

The youth minister from our home church was speaking quietly with my grandfather. Even at nine years old, I could sense that something terrible had happened. My mother never missed her morning call. And my father’s presence could only mean one thing. I stood silently in the kitchen hallway, listening as the pastor spoke to my grandfather. George and I were asked to come into the family room. I reached for his hand, holding it tightly as we stood in the center of the room, now joined by my aunt, uncle, and cousin. The pastor told us that our mother was with God in heaven. After that, I don’t remember hearing anything else about how she died.

There were no details, no explanations—at least none that stayed with me.

When I asked our father when we were going home, he told us we would be staying with Aunt Connie for an extended visit. That was the moment I went numb again.

I stopped hearing what was being said—or perhaps my mind simply shut it out.

Those memories were sealed away, locked deep in the darkest chambers of my mind. I have tried many times, but I cannot retrieve what else was said that day.

Through my later education about childhood trauma, I learned that memories like these are often buried when they are too overwhelming for a young mind to process.

It is a common survival response—our brain’s way of protecting us when reality becomes too much.

At nine years old, there was no way I could comprehend the full weight of my mother’s sudden death, her instant disappearance from our lives. Truthfully, I am still processing it today, all these years later, as more truth slowly comes into view.

George asked if he could go outside to get his truck. At six years old, he remained unaware of the weight of what was unfolding around us.

I climbed into my grandfather’s lap, and we cried together—two people searching for words that did not exist.

I stayed there for what felt like forever, frozen in place, paralyzed by shock and loss. To move would have made it real, and I was not ready to face a world without her. I sobbed until my eyes were swollen and dry, crying every tear I had that morning.

My Aunt Connie stood on the phone with Aunt Dorothy, her cries carrying the weight of a truth neither of them could yet hold—that they would never again see or hear their sister.

That image is permanently seared into my memory.

What does one do after receiving news that shatters the ground beneath your feet?

My father told me to go to my room or to step outside with George. I chose my room. I lay on the bed and cried quietly, wanting nothing more than to stay there for the rest of the day.

I felt unable to move, submerged in grief and sorrow. My father did not seem to carry that same weight.

He moved through the moment as if performing a role—present, but untouched.

He left without saying goodbye to George or me and returned to his life as though nothing had changed.

I later learned that his current wife, Dotti, didn’t even know George and me existed.

That same day, his son Ron had been born—and he was not there.

From that moment on, nothing would ever be the same for George and me. That morning became the line between before and after.