Gone but Never Forgotten

Gone but Never Forgotten



I received the worst news a person could ever hear. It was the kind of news that makes your heart fall, knees buckle, and eyes water. Sitting in a dark room, I clutched my chest gasping for air as I learned my foster mother, Linda, had died from cancer. I’m not sure anyone knows how it feels, at the age of 11, to hear the words no one wants to hear. It was very hard for me to accept that someone I loved was gone. I did not even get to say goodbye. It hurt so bad, and it still does, especially because the last thing I said to her was terrible and I have no way to change that.

She raised me starting at the age of three and until I was nine. She helped me when I was down, showed me right from wrong, and stood up for me when everyone else would have given up.

On July 8, 2009, I was given a choice between staying with Linda or going to live with my biological mother. I chose to go home, and it was really hard for a couple of weeks. Linda called every day to make sure I was okay. One day she even came to visit, but my mother would not let her into the house. I kept trying to figure out why.

After Linda had left, I asked my mother why she would not let her into the house. She told me it was because Linda was a bad person and that she wanted to take me away. As young as I was when I first came home, I did not understand why my foster mother was a bad person because she had taken care of me.

With age, I started to understand what my mother meant. When Linda would call, I would not pick up. When I went to visit, I would steal from her and try to make her mad so that she would want me to leave. It did not matter how many bad things I did to try and make her hate me; they did not work. She always said, no matter what you do, I will always love you, Mircale. I never understood why she would not hate me or do anything to retaliate.

On December 13, 2011, I was at home, and my sister gave me the phone. As I listened, I heard my foster dad, Dwayne, ask me why I did not come to the funeral. I asked, who had died. For a minute, he would not tell me. Then he let out a deep breath and said, Linda. The phone dropped, and my heart stopped for a minute. Tears started coming down my face.

My mother came into the room and asked, “What is wrong, Mircale.” All I could say was she is dead, and I did not get to say goodbye.

Now when I tell the story, and I think of the past, all I can do is cry. To know that Linda was in pain and calling my name and I could not help her like she helped me, hurts bad. I loved her, and now she is gone. I wish I could say sorry for all the things I did to her.

Opinion by Mircale Holman
Edited by Cathy Milne

Top Image Courtesy of Mircale Holman – Used With Permission
Featured Image Courtesy of new-york-city’s Flickr Page – Creative Commons License


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