The Storm 5: Finding Myself In The Eye of the Storm

📍 From Forgotten to Fierce | The Storm-Chapter 5

🌪 Finding Myself in the Eye of the Storm

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This may not seem like the biggest moment. Or the deepest. Or the most shocking.

But in my life, everything is measured by this moment.

Everything was before. Or after.

This was the moment.

What came before shaped me.

What came after defined me.

But this moment stands alone—stark, naked, unrelenting.

This was the most shocking moment of my life.

Unbelievable, yes—but so were many moments before and after.

Still, this one cut to the very core of who I was.

It threatened to tear away everything I believed to be true.

This is the story of the beginning.

And the end.

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They say it never freezes in Phoenix. But that December, it did.

On December 11, 1974 — two weeks before Christmas — the evening temperatures dipped to 35 degrees, and the cold stayed. By Christmas Eve, it dropped to 26 degrees: the coldest night of the year, the night Phoenix froze.

We had been in our house on the corner of 50th Avenue and Fairmont for a few years. It was home.

As you walked up the long driveway, the front door sat just to the right, opening into a sparse living room — a worn sofa, a chair, a stool. The cold tile floors offered no warmth.

To the left of the living room was the kitchen, with a window overlooking the driveway. Our family dinner table sat in the back.

Down a hallway were three bedrooms. The master bedroom on the right had once belonged to Mom and Dad, but after the D I V O R C E, it didn't feel the same. Mom was rarely there, and when she was, she had a boyfriend.

To the left, there were two bedrooms: the first belonged to my brothers, and the last, with a corner window, was shared by my sister and me. We were cut from the same cloth but stitched into different patterns — I was tidy and structured, she was creative and messy. I was the "bossy" one, she was the quiet one. I was verbose, she was introspective. Sharing that room was mainly a disaster. It would take years before we realized how much we actually had in common.

Even though Christmas was just two weeks away, you wouldn't know it by looking around. No tree, no lights, no tinsel — the only thing remotely merry and bright were the Brady Bunch and Partridge Family reruns glowing from the TV.

The TV droned on while my brothers and sister sat in front of it, and I was engrossed in a book.

Then came the knock on the door.

Long Bob Silver had arrived to take Mom out for a "night on the town." We all ran to the door. Mom stood there beside Bob, her face bright with excitement. She was thrilled to be going on a real date — to be wined and dined, to feel wanted.

We lined up in front of her. In our family, you never left without a kiss and an "I love you." Mom had once left without kissing her father-in-law goodbye, and she never got the chance again. From then on, it became a rule — one we still keep in my home today. My own children are just as adamant about it as my mom once was.

Mom went down the line, kissing each of us and telling us she loved us.

"You're in charge, Jean Marie," she said. "Be good now, kids."

She turned to leave. But just before they stepped out the door, Bob turned back and said, laughing, "If we aren't home in three days, we aren't coming back."

What?

Bob was always exaggerating, always joking. But that night, a chill ran up my spine. Maybe it was the open door. Or perhaps it was something else. All I know is the cold crept in that night.

Saturday morning, Mom still wasn't home. That wasn't unusual — she'd often drift in later, in time to get ready for work. We poured cereal, turned on The Monkees and Scooby-Doo, and waited.

She didn't come.

Day two. We switched to toast with cinnamon and sugar because the cereal had run out. Still no sign of her.

Day three. The milk ran out. We ate the bread dry, watched the same cartoons, and tried to act like nothing had changed. But the silence began to feel like another person in the house — heavy and watchful.

Day four. The cold outside had settled into the walls, into my bones. The emptiness in the house felt bigger than ever.

Day five. One week before Christmas. Only a few slices of bread remained, the plastic bag crumpling in on itself.

I was fifteen. I was "in charge." And now, it was a week before Christmas, we were running out of food, and Mom had been gone for five days. I had to do something.

I walked across the street to the neighbors — the ones with a phone—and asked if they could call my dad.

Dad called social services. He told them about us because his new wife had two kids of her own, and they all lived in a small trailer. There was no room for us.

The social worker came to the house. The house that we thought of as home. Adults were speaking in low voices, and I couldn't hear what they were saying, their words floating just beyond my reach.

Then she came over to speak to me. I had mastered not feeling anything by that point. Or so I thought.

The social worker sat down carefully, her hands folded too tightly in her lap. She looked at me with that pitying softness adults save for moments they think will break you.

She told me it was so close to Christmas that all the resources they had to help families like mine had already been allocated. Unfortunately, there was no money to help us. She told me to prepare myself. There would be no Christmas. No Christmas food, no Christmas gifts. No Santa.

I let that sink in. I knew there was no Santa. However, what the mind knows and what the heart feels are not always in sync. Mom was gone, but I was still naïve enough to believe that Christmas always came. The reality of Mom being gone was settling in.

And then she said, "I think it would be best if your siblings heard this from you."

My stomach cramped. Yes, of course it would be best - for them. But it was devastating for me. Because Jimmy was only 6, Ken was 10, and Melina was 13. I wanted them to have their childish wonder just a little longer. Telling them broke me. I was not prepared for something this heavy. For anything this adult. I was not ready to speak these words aloud. But I stepped up, as I always did. Because there was no one else to advocate for us. With a broken heart, I told my siblings, Dad doesn't want us, Mom isn't coming back, and Santa isn't coming either.

No one spoke it out loud, but we all knew why Santa wasn't coming. We must be some really bad kids.

The social worker continued, “It’s a week before Christmas, and it’s always difficult to place four kids into one home. This close, it’s going to be impossible. I need you to prepare yourself and your siblings for the facts. We’ll have to split you up.”

I sat there, appearing calm and stoic on the outside, while inside a storm began to swirl. It was as if a tornado of thoughts kept circling: My dad doesn't want us. My mom left us. Santa isn't coming. We have to split you up.

Everything we knew to be true in the world had just blown up. Nothing was true anymore. The only thing we had left was each other — and that was about to be taken away too.

And in the middle of this storm, I realized: adults were the cause of all my problems. They made the decisions. I paid the consequences.

And the storm of thoughts echoed my mom's last words to me. "I love you. You're in charge now, Jean Marie.”

My mom had made a lot of bad choices, but she never steered me wrong.

You know what, Mom? You're right.

I am in charge now. ⚡

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