“Sharon,”
There’s this little restaurant in the River Oaks area of Houston and its name serves as a metaphor for this story, this is about a conversation that I had almost a year ago today.
It was just my third trip to Houston since leaving the state for a job in Ohio back in 2011. I made it a point not to return home for nearly a decade. The memories that I had of coming home to Houston to rebuild after 2006 weren’t great ones. The few good ones that I kept expired with time.
So, I made the decision to write over the sad memories by living new ones. That’s what brought me to Houston in February of 2021. I chose the best company, stayed in the best hotel I could find, visited any place that I held dear, and ate the best food. But I also confronted a few demons: I made contact with my mother, I visited old haunts, and I tried for a second time to ask for your forgiveness.
Without you, I would not have graduated from Jesuit. What my classmates didn’t know is that, while we lived in a typical middle class home at the time, the inside of it was a living hell. My dad left, my mother was suffering from diagnosed schizophrenia and severe depression, the walls and floors were soiled, and there was no food in the refrigerator or pantry. My brothers and sister were granted special meal privileges at their respective public schools. Jesuit had no such program.
Everything changed in a day.
You looked at me one night and said, “you’re eating here from now on.” I’ll never forget that. And I did so for nearly two years. You were my mom when no one else was up to the task. I was 16 and 17 years old when you elected to make a place for me at your dinner table on what seemed like a nightly basis. Your guest room became my bedroom, your daughter was my little sis, and your son was no different than my biological brothers.
Like many letters written, I find myself backwards and forwards between regret and gratitude. In this case, they compound one another.
In November I began a collection of letters that, together, tell the story of the last sixteen years of my life: my failures, my faults, my hell, my heaven, and the psychological costs of any wins that I was lucky enough to earn. Your role in my life was so critical that if you would have asked to adopt me, I would have given it no thought at all.
When I came back home from the Academy in 2006, we picked up where we left off. Your son was still my brother, your daughter was still my sister, and the place at the table waited for me. On Sundays, Lindsey and I would stop by and show off our infant. I provided progress reports on my career, faith, and appeals process. Without knowing much of the story at all, you didn’t judge me. You assumed the best in me and you provided love when I needed it most. There was little difference between my 16th year and my 24th. So when I left home for good, onward to Ohio, you were one of the few that I kept in touch with. Eddie, your oldest child, called and I would answer immediately. On occasion I called your phone number, one of the few landlines that I still know by heart. You’d laugh with me, you’d say a Catholic prayer for me. You granted me a level of grace and love that I wasn’t accustomed to.
Compared to Ohio, where the hits seemed to keep on coming: Texas was beautiful. I think that I resented the state because I know that I shouldn’t have left it. Everything changed in a day.
But I also felt responsible; I felt that I had contributed to his death.
It’s been nearly ten years since I received the call from your daughter. I remember May 3, 2012 like it was yesterday. I was walking down the stairs of our rented house in Downtown Columbus. Alexis was four by then and I was responsible for taking her to preschool that day. I instinctively sat on the third stair when Jacquelyn’s name showed up on my cell phone. I remember being startled, she never called me. Certainly not at 8 AM in the morning.
“Web, Web….Web, Web, Web, Eddie is gone. Eddie has passed away.”
I remember feeling anger and then resentment and then regret. He had called me the day before and I didn’t answer. Jacquelyn told me where you found him in the house with a calm that a 23 year old is not supposed to keep when her older brother died just the night before. She explained that more information was to come. I just sat there crying, Alexis stared at me startled by the sight. In that moment, I imagined the pain of Ed Senior and you. But deep down, I felt like it was my fault. I never stopped him from pursuing his prescription pill problem and I knew that he was hurting on the inside. But I didn’t have the faculties to help him through his obvious pain. And I hold guilt for that.
A few weeks before Jacquelyn called me, I’d just been fired from the job that moved us to Ohio. My one credit card was maxed out and the new role that I just started paid absolutely nothing. It was a dress shirt company with no customers.
So I didn’t fly home to the funeral. I didn’t just fail to show because I had no money, I was scared. I felt responsible; I felt that I had contributed to his death. I was with him at 16 years old when he would rave about Xanax. I knew that he was hurting after college injuries and a broken heart. And yet, I did nothing for him. I felt that my pain was more important at the time.
Your son wasn’t supposed to die, I was. I began to feel the pain of being a friend who wasn’t there for him when he needed me. I felt the guilt of having a family and a decent life despite what I’d experienced in Connecticut just six years earlier. Superficially at least, the life that I had was the one that I envisioned for him. I was the one who was supposed to lean on prescription pills.
So no, I was not there to say goodbye because I felt that I had contributed to his death. I failed to honor one of my best friends.
Seated at this River Oaks restaurant, I explained all of this at the table. Four months earlier in November 2020, I stopped by your home and watched as you drove away; your husband alerting you to my visit. You elected not to be there when I arrived. But at that February 2021 dinner, I was convinced to try one more time.
Four months later, I came to Houston for what will likely be the last time for a while. It was our 20th high school reunion. We honored your son and I decided to tell you about it face to face. We walked in as a family of four, the first time that my youngest daughter had ever stepped foot in your home. Our teenager beamed as she began to remember walking your first floor as a young child.
As we sat on your sofa, your husband warmly welcomed us. Lindsey tapped me on the shoulder. She sat stunned as we watched you walk swiftly out of the back of your house, she began to tear up. I repelled you from your own home. There were limits to your grace and it was in plain sight. Alexis asked where you were, unaware of the dynamic. Your husband politely told her that you weren’t home; we went along with it.
These days, it’s rare to be in the same room as someone who has hatred for you. We are used to online trolls and message boards but not the sensation of face to face disdain. On that day, I felt every ounce of what you wanted me to know about myself.
So, I looked at your husband and asked if there was anything that I could do and he said no. I’d exhausted your grace.
There aren’t many things that I regret more than missing Eddie’s funeral. He was a teammate, a close friend, and as close to family as friends can become. You were my mom when no one else seemed to care how I was going to get through the day. And this is why my failure is inexcusable, few on earth have done more for me than you have.
I am tremendously sorry for your hurt, my cowardice, and the loss of your son. Over the decade since your son’s death, we have not spoken once. I called countless times, hoping to confront the issue. When you are in your 20s and 30s, you cannot imagine someone in their 40s, 50s, and 60s hating you. But I can now. For a time, I didn’t understand. But now I do and I realize that it’s my time to show you the care and concern that you once afforded me. If it made the loss of your son any easier, I understand.
I don’t expect that you will ever speak to me again. But whether or not that happens, I want you to know what I said at dinner that night at State of Grace. And I paraphrase:
“Sharon” was a mom to me and I credit her for keeping me alive and well as a teenager. Our daughters’ lives are unlikely. It took a lot of luck, perseverance, and prayer to keep them able and safe. We provided them the life that I prayed for as child. And whether or not she and I ever speak, they know that they wouldn’t be here without her. So, they are her children, too, and they are making her proud.
Eddie will be 39 years old in May and I still carry him with me. I love him and I love you.
My best,
Web
Lesson: there are limits to the pain that others are willing to endure for our own comfort.