I was just a teenager watching my mother grow weak. And when she was gone, my father was not the type to take over her caring spirit. He was

| This is the 550th story of Our Life Logs® | Growing up, I would hear people say things about my mother. She was a crackhead. A prostitute. They talked about her like a dog, but I knew differently. I always loved her. In fact, the gossip made me love her even more. They didn’t understand her—heck, I didn’t understand her fully, but I wanted to. I wanted to know her story. Growing up, I knew that my mother had a lot of childhood trauma. I knew she was raped by her uncle, whic

| This is the 540th story of Our Life Logs® | I used to always believe that everything happens for a good reason and that you have absolutely no control over it. I've always let fate take charge over my life, but when it came to death, I wanted so badly to be in control, just once. Loss does not discriminate. It comes for everyone eventually, leaving a hole left in your heart, soul, and life. But can one do anything about it? Of course not. I couldn’t, so, how could you? How

It would take about two days to reach my mother, a small sacrifice for being there in her time of need.

But it is also known for being smack in the middle of the Bible Belt, where children say “yes, ma’am,” and “no, sir,”...