Read a Sample

Most mornings, before the world really gets going, I find myself pulling into the same place.

I don't even have to think about it anymore.

It's just where I go.

I ease up along the curb, put the truck in park, and roll down the window.

That's how it always starts.

The maintenance guys out there probably recognize it by now—that truck, that spot, that window coming down.

They know I'm there.

They just let me be.

“Hey baby.”

That's how I always greeted her.

And that's how I still do.

I don't get out right away.

Most of the time, I just sit there with my arm resting on the door, looking over at her.

Talking.

Like she's right there beside me.

Because in a way… she is.

I tell her everything.

What's going on with the kids.

What the grandkids are doing.

Who's growing, who's changing, who's into what now.

I tell her about the little things, the big things… and sometimes things I know I've probably already told her before.

“I may have already told you this… I'm not sure if you see these things.”

I don't know why I say that.

Maybe I just hope she does.

After a while, I'll step out and walk over.

Some mornings I talk the whole time.

Some mornings I don't say much at all.

Susan passed away on April 10th, 2024, after a long battle with cancer.

But that's not how I think of her.

And it's not how anyone who knew her would describe her either.

You would start with her smile.

It was simple.

Warm.

Real.

Not the kind that tried to take over a room—but somehow, it made everyone in it feel comfortable.

Like you belonged there.

She had a way of doing that.

At our house… at gatherings… anywhere, really.

She didn't need to be the center of attention.

She just made sure everyone else felt like they belonged.

If someone new showed up—someone who didn't quite know where they fit—she'd find them.

Sit with them.

Talk with them.

Make them feel like they'd been there the whole time.

That was Susan.

Around our family, she wasn't “Susan.”

She was “Gigi.”

And if you ever heard one of those grandkids yell that name, you knew exactly what was about to happen.

They'd come running.

And she would drop whatever she was doing, get down on a knee, and wrap them up in the biggest hug you've ever seen.

If there was a room full of people and one of those kids said “Gigi,” nothing else mattered.

They had her.

Every time.

She was the center of our family.

The one who held it together.

The one who believed—long before any of us fully understood it—that if our kids grew up and loved their spouses the way she and I loved each other…

then everything in her life had been worth it.

Cancer took a lot from her.

Over time, it took her strength.

Her mobility.

Her independence.

But it never took the things that made her who she was.

Not her kindness.

Not her humor.

Not her love for her family.

Not her ability to make people feel seen.

Even near the end… she was still asking other people how they were doing.

Still making them feel comfortable.

Still being Susan.

I usually stay about thirty minutes.

Sometimes longer.

Morning and late afternoon seem to be the times I feel closest to her.

I don't know why.

It just is.

I talk to God first.

Then I talk to my parents.

They're right there beside her.

And one day, I'll be right there too.

My name is already on the stone.

Then I talk to Susan.

There are things I tell her almost every day.

I tell her how lucky I was.

How I'm not going to try to find someone to take her place.

It wouldn't be fair.

And truthfully… I wouldn't want to.

Sometimes I laugh.

And I know if someone happens to see me, they're probably wondering what in the world I'm doing—standing in a cemetery, laughing.

But that was us.

We laughed at everything.

Even our own mistakes.

Even the hard stuff.

Other times, I just stand there.

Quiet.

After a while, I head back to the truck.

Sit there for a minute.

Then I go on about life.

The same life we built together.

The same family she loved more than anything.

But here’s what I’ve come to understand—

Susan didn't leave.

Not really.

She lives in the stories.

In the way the kids love their families.

In the way the grandkids run and laugh.

In the way I still talk to her every morning.

And this book…

is just me telling those stories.

The story of Susan.

The story of our family.

The story of the greatest love of my life.

There are moments now…

when I find myself telling her stories.

About the kids.

The grandkids.

Beach trips.

Easters at the Frazier’s in Houston.

I can see her in my mind…

smiling…

wishing she could have been there.

And I tell her…

“You were.”

“Alright baby… I’ll talk to you later.”

And I always do.