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Truth Be Told: Letters to My Loved Ones Series. Content Warning.
them, Someday when I'm gone from here, I want my children and loved ones to know just how much I loved them and not only that, but I want the whole world to know. Not just words, of course my actions as well. My mother died suddenly when I was seven months pregnant with SJ (6, autism, loves donuts). I didn’t get a chance to tell her how much I really loved her. So, guess what... you get to read about Mama Lott right here (rapid blink). You will also read a letter to my daughter, who lived with my mother for a time, to my oldest son, who is my middle child and often reserved because of his disability. My two eldest (daughter 21, the K-pop guru, son 18, Mr. Tech). Those letters will really take time. I was a young mom and there is a lot of pain there for all of us, so bear with me. This letter though, this is SJ's and to be honest I feel somewhere down the road, maybe at graduation, God give me long life, I’ll write him another one. But for now, here it goes! (of course I cried... hush up).
By V Joyce Lott7 months ago in Families
The Declaration of Parental Rights
“Children belong to their parents—not to the government.” That shouldn’t be a radical statement—but in 2025, it is. We are living through a silent revolution—one where government agents, unelected bureaucrats, and activist judges have increasingly inserted themselves into the sacred space between parent and child. Under the guise of “safety,” “equity,” or “best interest,” the state is taking more control while parents are being treated as threats, not protectors.
By Michael Phillips7 months ago in Families
When They Steal Your Children
They took your child. Not in the way most people think. There was no dramatic kidnapping, no amber alert, no frantic media coverage. No — your child was taken with a gavel. With the silent nod of a judge. With the signature of a bureaucrat who didn’t care to hear your side. And just like that, you became the ghost of a parent. A name on a piece of paper. An afterthought.
By Michael Phillips7 months ago in Families
Why We Ate Dinner Without Speaking for a Year
The silence began on a Tuesday. It wasn’t loud, like a door slamming or a scream echoing down a hallway. It was quieter than that—almost polite. My father set the table, just like always. I brought over the plates, careful not to clink the silverware. We sat across from each other, side by side in our grief, and ate in silence.
By Fazal Hadi7 months ago in Families
The Year the Sky Never Stopped Crying
The rain hadn’t stopped for 17 days when the river swallowed our street. I’d memorized the cracks in our living room ceiling—each one a lightning bolt frozen in plaster—while rain drummed its fists against the roof. Outside, the Willamette River crept past "historic highs" into something feral. Neighbors stacked sandbags like frantic castle walls. My daughter Lily drew smiling suns on the fogged-up window. "When’s the water going home, Mama?"
By Ziafat Ullah7 months ago in Families
What My Father Never Said, and What I Heard Anyway
He never gave big speeches. There were no long-winded father-son talks over a campfire, no final words of wisdom before I moved out, no dramatic pronouncements about life, women, or work. He wasn’t the kind of man who offered advice — at least not in the traditional sense.
By Kamran Zeb7 months ago in Families
The Day I Lost Him (And Found Everything Else)
The world didn’t end with a bang. It ended with the absence of a small, sticky hand. One moment, Benji’s fingers were wrapped around mine, his grip warm and slightly damp from the grape juice he’d spilled on himself earlier. The next—nothing. Just the hum of supermarket fluorescents and the too-loud rustle of plastic bags in someone else’s cart.
By Ziafat Ullah7 months ago in Families
Ink and Fire
Maya Brooks had two rules in life: Never miss a deadline. Never trust Liam Carter. As the star reporter for The Daily Press, Maya had carved a name for herself with fierce tenacity, sharp wit, and bold headlines. Liam Carter, her counterpart at the rival paper The Sentinel, was everything she despised—cold, calculated, and far too smug for someone who wore ties like armor.
By MANZOOR KHAN7 months ago in Families
Grandfather’s Final Wish: A Journey Back to Where It All Began
I always thought my grandfather would live forever. He was one of those people whose presence filled every room, whose laughter made even the bitterest tea taste sweet. His hands were always stained with earth from the garden, and his words always carried stories from a world that seemed older than time. But age, as it does, crept in silently. His memory started to blur, and his steps grew uncertain. And yet, his spirit never faded.
By Muhammad Usama7 months ago in Families
