July 8, 2025
It has taken me nearly a year to write about the last time I saw my son, John. Just thinking about it is painful, and writing about it hurts even more. I’ve kept this memory tucked deeply away in my mind until recently, when I was scrolling through my Facebook feed and came across the picture above. I immediately stopped scrolling to read the post. As I continued to read, it was impossible to hold back the rising tide of tears that began to stream down my face.
My mind drifted back to the last time I saw John, and an overwhelming sadness filled my soul.
Now, it feels right to open up about that day.
June 29, 2024
The memory of this last encounter and the words exchanged with John that day still weigh heavily on my heart.
John stayed with us for a week after a physical fight with Miller the Killer at his home, which was one of several incidents leading up to his murder. Due to the altercation, John had trouble returning home, so he stayed with us until the landlord allowed him to move back in.
I had been urging John for quite some time that he really shouldn’t be in such a violent environment if the situation continued to escalate. The presence of Miller the Killer made me particularly nervous.
While sitting on the porch, I offered him the option to stay with us as he figured things out. He insisted on returning home, believing it was where he belonged. I had just found out he proposed to his girlfriend without telling us, which added to the confusion. He kept changing his story about their relationship. His selective disclosure of information, alongside his dismissive attitude towards our concerns, was incredibly frustrating. After discussing it with my husband, he calmly said, “John’s working hard to become the man he wants to be; let him.”
While I did my best to respect his wishes, the momma bear in me had to let him know how I felt.
“John, I don’t want you to go back there. It’s dangerous. You can stay here, but you must remain here. If you go back there with her, I’m afraid there’ll be a knock on my door from the police telling us you’re dead.”
He stood up, shook his head, hugged me, and told me he loved me. He said he needed to return the car to his girlfriend (now fiance’).
I wanted to pull him back and make him stay, but my husband’s words echoed in my head, so I let him go. He sauntered down the driveway, got in the car, and pulled away. I whispered, ‘I love you more,’ and watched his car disappear into the sunset.
That was the last time I saw my son alive. One month later, on the evening of July 28, 2024, he was shot seven times. That knock on my door in the early morning of July 29th was the one every mother dreads and the one I feared most: a detective telling me that my son was dead.
Later that day, amidst an emotional breakdown of wails and tears, I told those who tried to comfort me about my last conversation with John. I recounted what I had said to him. “I knew this was going to happen!” I cried over and over again, sobbing so hard that I lost my breath.
One of my guests responded by quoting Proverbs 18:21: “Death and life are in the power of the tongue.” She continued on with her interpretation, “This means that words can create both positive and negative outcomes.”
Excuse me?
Was she saying I spoke John’s death into existence?!?!
How dare she say that to me at the most excuciatingly painful time of my life!
Whether she meant it that way or not, that’s how I took it, and I told her I completely disagree. I did not bring about this negative outcome with my words; rather, I anticipated it happening. It’s called a mother’s intuition, and a mother’s intuition can often be more powerful than any words spoken.
I just knew, and my worst nightmare had come true.
John,
Had I known the last time I saw you would be the last time,
I would have hugged you a little tighter,
told you I loved you a little louder,
and stayed by your side a little longer.
I still can’t believe you’re gone.