Recently, I attended a meeting for caregivers of LGBTQ+ kids. It was my hope that this group could become my new tribe of changemakers. Much like my clan of nursing home warriors, I envisioned us standing shoulder to shoulder at protests, raising our voices in love for our children and in resistance to the violations coming for them. But two days prior, a Turkish PhD candidate was snatched off of the street by our government less than four miles away from where we sat. The entire room, rightfully so, was blind with terror. For three hours we sat in a circle discussing how to make a difference from the shadows. I felt sick.

This is my Uncle Frank. I spoke to him for the last time on Saturday. He apologized that he wouldn’t be around to read my book when it was finished. We laughed about the name of his high school mascot (the Authors) and said how much we love each other. A Mozart concerto played in the background. On Sunday, after a morning with family, Uncle Frank took his final pill.