Being so close to family, we always knew what each other were doing. Being so close, might have been a downfall but it was all that we knew, it was subconscious. One of our favorite traditions every Thanksgiving meant biscuits and gravy made by Mom for breakfast, followed by naps during football, and then watching Mom and Dad carve the turkey while making sure the cranberries didn’t burn. But Thanksgiving of 2021 would turn out to be life-altering.
At 5:13 am on November 25th, my brother Todd called abruptly and said, “Get over to Mom and Dad’s. Peyton was shot and killed.” I bolted out of bed and rushed to their house, just a mile away. Strangely, there were no police or sirens—but when we turned on the news, it was everywhere.
My nephew Peyton—Todd’s son—had been shot the night before by an ex-cop who had resigned from the force at 36. The ex-cop confronted Peyton and his friends for speeding in the neighborhood. Peyton had a ghost gun (with the serial number scratched off) and fired first, hitting the man in the hip. The ex-cop retaliated, firing eight bullets into Peyton’s chest, killing him instantly. All caught on a ring door bell. Every news station we turned to, in order to avoid the news story, was inescapable, we turned the T.V. off, in shock and disbelief.
The grief was incomprehensible. The family felt crushed, suffocated by a wave of disbelief and pain. At times, I would visit Mom just to help lift her off the closet floor where she lay in emotional paralysis, unable to cope with the loss of her grandson.
The investigation and court process dragged on for over two years. As the trial finally neared in early 2024, the stress was unbearable for my mother. She feared the killer would walk free. That anxiety took a toll—she even began smoking again.
And then, as the trial neared its end, our world shattered again.
Mom had a sudden stomach ache. Dad took her to the ER. Later that day, I texted him: “How’s Mom?” He responded: “If she survives, she’ll need a colostomy bag for the rest of her life and won’t be able to eat normal food again.” I was devastated. Mom passed away at 3:09 pm on February 13th, 2024.
And at 5:00 pm—just two hours later—the verdict in Peyton’s case was read. The shooter was sentenced to 2–5 years for second-degree manslaughter.
Both losses collided in a single day.
Maybe Peyton and mom were cosmically waiting to be together for the final verdict?
I was wrecked. I was lost. I had spent years visiting my parents every day, calling 10–15 times just to hear their voices. My mom was my best friend, my safe place. Her death was more than personal—it was spiritual. The world felt unrecognizable. And when my girlfriend at the time said, “I don’t understand how one person can have that kind of impact on you,” I was floored. She didn’t get it. My mom was everything.
I was left numb, confused, and grieving. But this loss, like so many moments before, would eventually point me toward growth. It was one of the hardest truths I’ve ever had to learn: that even the deepest love cannot stop the waves of life. But it can shape how we rise when we’re drowning.
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