Your Love Outlived You

Remember my third-grade candy sale?

We walked half of Queens like we were running for office, determined to win me the grand prize — a Nintendo Game Boy.

It worked! We hustled over $700 in orders.

Only for my mother to turn around and use all the money to buy drugs.

You replaced every dollar. Every single one.

And thanks to you, I was the only kid in class with a Game Boy — and unfortunately, a head start on developing lifelong trust issues.

You were the one who taught me how to fold a fitted sheet and eat with chopsticks. I’m still terrible at both. But if my life depended on it, I’d survive — thanks to you.

I used to think steak with any pink in the middle was repulsive. Then came the summer of ’91, Smith & Wollensky, Midtown Manhattan.

You made me try a medium-rare ribeye — you insisted, really.

Game. Changed. I’ve never eaten a well-done steak again.

You were the first person to tell me I was smart. No one had called me dumb, but no one had ever called me brillant either.

You said I didn’t have to reach for the stars…

Because I already was one.

I tell every child in my life the same thing now. In your voice.

You once told me "Everyone doesn't deserve to be an issue in your life. Sometimes you have to hide who you are to protect who you are not."

I didn't get it, then.

It took decades of healing, heartbreak, and experience to understand.

But now?

That quote lives on a sticky note on my bathroom mirror and has moved with me from state to state.

Just like your love.

On my wedding day, minutes before walking down the aisle, veil on, nerves shot — you pulled me aside. You asked if I was 100% sure. You said if I wasn’t, even by 1%, you’d tell everyone to go home. That you’d hide me away in your Costa Rica condo until I was ready to face the world again.

You weren't joking.

You meant it.

And that’s what made me feel safe enough to say “I do.” Because I knew, if I had needed to say “I don’t,” you had my back.

And then there was your rule: no matter how bad I felt, I should always leave the house looking like I loved myself. You said it wasn’t for other people — it was for me. That the way I present myself can change the way I feel about myself.

At the time, it annoyed me.

But now?

It’s a mantra. One I live by, and one I pass on to other women. Even when I feel like dirt, I don’t let myself look like it.

That lesson has quietly shaped my entire adulthood and wardrobe.

I don't have to always be willing to meet people where they are. Its a choice. My choice. Its okay to meet people exactly where they are willing to meet me, even if it means leaving them exactly where they are and not meeting them at all.

Words cannot explain how valuable that advice was - it is the very reason why and how I have been able to establish and enforce healthy boundaries within my relationships.

I wish you were here so I could tell you how much I have benefited from those words.

You taught me that blood isn’t always thicker than water — sometimes it’s just stickier. The backstory of why you told me this still makes me laugh, even though the statement is terribly true.

I was nine years old the night my attacker threw me out of an eighth-story apartment window. Both arms and both legs broken. Body in pieces.

You arrived at the hospital before my blood relatives - even though you lived the furthest away.

You always showed up before anyone else — in every way that mattered.

I still tell the story of how I was terrified to take my 8 week old baby to the grocery store alone. I was sure he'd have a meltdown and I was even more sure I would. I called you to see if you could meet me at the store but you were headed in the opposite direction.

Just when I thought I was doing it solo, I turned down the produce aisle and there you were. Between the nectarines and bagged salads, screaming my name.

You had just landed from an 18-hour flight from Morocco. But when I called, instead of going straight home, you detoured in your taxi, to me.

Who does that?

You did.

Always.

I never knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I still don't quite know. You told me that I didn't have to just pick one thing. But whatever I chose, make sure it fits who I am.

As a result, I've never had a problem walking away from any job - or passing up one that did not align with my values.

Your words truly saved me from toxic bosses and then some.

You always said the teen drama wouldn’t matter one day. That the things I cried over would barely register later. I felt like you were minimizing my pain, but now I know you were trying to protect me from it.

You were right.

I wish I had believed you back then — maybe my forehead wouldn’t carry so many worry lines.

I owe you so much.

Thank you for being the wind beneath my wings when I was too young to fly or even believed I ever would.

Thank you for not judging me, based on my parents poor examples.

Thank you for believing in me, and loving me like I was your own. Even when I had nothing to give you back.

I hope I’m making you proud. I hope you see the life I’m building, the strength I carry, and the way I show up for others — because of how you showed up for me.

You’re gone now. But you are stitched into everything good I’ve become and everything I had the strength not to become.

When people ask me how I became the woman I am, I don't start with the pain... and there was a lot. I start with you. Because you were the turning point — the one who showed me love could be safe, steady, and strong.

I carry you in every choice I make, every child I encourage, every piece of light I try to leave in this world.

You may be gone, but your love didn’t die with you. It lives on — in me.

Forever.