“Navigating Life:

Dear Mom,

When I look back on my life, one thing is clear—you were always there. From my earliest memories, it was you and me, moving through the streets of the Bronx.

That place shaped me, but you shaped who I became.

You were the oldest of four sisters, raised inside a family that wasn’t always easy or stable. Still, you stood your ground. You carried a lot on your shoulders, and you did it without complaining. You were both mother and father to Billy and me, loving when we needed it, tough when we deserved it, and always watching out for us in a neighborhood that didn’t give kids many free passes.

Back then, being raised by a single mother felt different—almost embarrassing at times, at least to a kid trying to fit in. But you never let that slow you down. You protected us. And yeah, when we crossed the line, the broomstick or the belt came out—no hesitation. That was the Bronx. That was survival. And looking back, I get it.

Our home had its share of good moments. Christmas Eve still sticks with me—the music, the waiting, that nervous excitement that wouldn’t let you sleep. I’ll never forget my first bike. That bike meant freedom. It meant riding through different neighborhoods, learning the streets, learning life.

We didn’t have much, but we had everything we needed. Three TV channels, no phones, no screens. Our days were spent outside—basketball, stickball, hot peas and butter, Johnny rides the pony. In the winter, it was snowball fights, football, and hitching rides off the backs of cars, combat boots sliding like skates. It was rough around the edges, but it was real.

As we got older, I know it got harder for you. The age difference between Billy and me didn’t help. Keeping us in line was no small job, but you did the best you could. You made sure we stayed in school, stayed grounded, stayed out of real trouble. I’ll never forget you sitting me down around fourteen for “the talk.” By then, I’d already heard your favorite warning more than once: “Don’t have no parents knocking on my door saying their daughter’s pregnant.” I was mortified at the time, but now I laugh—and honestly, I respect you even more for it.

Through everything, you never spoke badly about our father. Not once. Even seeing an old picture of him would bring tears to your eyes. That taught me something—about love, forgiveness, and strength. No matter how angry I felt, you showed me that holding onto bitterness only weighs you down.

In my mid-twenties, after my first son was born, I finally grew up for real. I moved to New Mexico with my first wife and started a new chapter. Somewhere along the way, we drifted apart. That distance stayed until losing my wife to cancer shook me awake and forced me to reset what really mattered. Reconnecting with you was one of the best decisions I ever made.

As an adult, you weren’t just my mother—you became my friend. Even as dementia took hold, you were still you. Still listening. Still offering advice. Still loving me without conditions. You stayed my anchor longer than most people ever get.

Now, as I live my life and raise my own family, I understand more than ever what it takes to do what you did. Your greatest gift wasn’t just love—it was teaching me how to stand on my own two feet.

I choose to remember the good. The laughs we shared. The way our personalities matched just right. Sitting there cracking up over people and the stupidest things. You loved Heide, and losing her hit you hard, just like it did me. You were there when my first grandson came into the world, standing with us through joy and grief at the same time.

And when I remarried, you didn’t judge or hold back—you accepted Mariel with kindness and genuine love. You understood that life doesn’t stop. The way you welcomed her and embraced your grandson Nathan without hesitation—that meant more to me than you’ll ever know.Those moments stay with me.

You shaped my life in ways I’m still discovering. I carry you with me—in how I think, how I love, how I parent, and how I keep moving forward no matter what.

Here’s to you, Mom.
I’ll always love you.
And I miss you more than words can say.

With love,
John