On the night of October 14, 1962, at 10:40 PM PST, my mother, Frances Marion Cascinai, age 37, was found dead in our family home at 1034 Pumnalo Street in San Bernardino, California. Her death certificate lists the cause as a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the chest and heart, labeled a suicide.

There’s no mention of the weapon itself or any additional injuries. I was just nine years old at the time. My younger brother George was six.

I begin this blog post—and the ones that will follow about my mother with a simple truth: these words are tough to put down.

Even now, as I write, I stand at the edge of this journey, only just beginning to uncover what has long been buried. Some pieces may come into focus; others may remain lost in shadow.

What I share will come from the deepest parts of me—the pain, the trauma, the aching wound that is the absence of my mother.

That wound has shaped my life. It is the hollow space in my heart that has never fully healed.

I didn’t grow up knowing my mother like most daughters do—there were no shared moments, no years of building memories together.

That part of life was taken from us. The grief I carry is elusive and formless, not something I can easily explain or point to.

Unlike a broken bone, there’s no visible injury to say, “Here—this is where it hurts.”

There’s no precise diagnosis or nameable condition to account for the depth of this loss. And yet, the ache is constant, settled deep in my bones, more real and enduring than anything I’ve ever known. It’s difficult for me to fully grasp, let alone articulate, the depth of my feelings.

In many ways, it’s as though I’m mourning a collection of shadows—memories that were never made, moments that never had the chance to exist.

And yet, the grief is real. I feel the weight of what was lost, even though I never truly had it.

Perhaps a mental health professional could explain this—the enduring, invisible thread that connects a mother and child. Though we share no DNA, our bond was sealed when she chose me. That connection is eternal, embedded in the very fabric of who I am. Surely there’s a clinical name for this sorrow, the vast and aching space left behind.

The overwhelming emptiness echoes through my heart, body, and entire being.

My yearning for my mother has evolved—it was different at nine, then again at twelve, sixteen, twenty-two, and thirty.

And now, at seventy-one, the ache has not faded. It has only deepened, layered with new understanding and new heartbreak.

I still feel the longing in all the familiar ways, but as a woman and a mother myself, I’ve added new dimensions of pain—each one as searing as the last.

Decades of emotional trauma have layered themselves into a hardened scab, and now, as I begin to peel it back, one layer at a time, I find myself facing the most difficult, soul-wrenching work of my life.

The truth is not simple—it never has been.

I am a woman aching for her mother. While many can relate to that longing on the surface, my story runs far deeper, tangled in complexities that defy easy explanation. Perhaps you, too, have experienced heartbreak—have felt the slow, painstaking process of healing—and can understand how elusive wholeness can be. I often find words inadequate for the full spectrum of my emotions, thoughts, and memories.

Still, I offer them as a doorway into my truth. I invite you to walk with me through this story, to listen with both your heart and your compassion, and to see beyond what I can fully express. In doing so, I hope you’ll glimpse not just my pain but also the strength it has taken to carry it.

This article is one of several that appeared in the days following my mother’s death.
Published on Tuesday, October 16, 1962, by the San Bernardino County Sun, Page 13,  just two days later, it reported—painfully and inaccurately—that she left behind no known survivors.