In those fleeting hours, we experienced love, peace, and happiness—feelings I like to believe have shaped who we’ve each become.
Some moments stay with you forever, etched in your heart like a melody you can’t forget. From the moment I was born, my life was steeped in adversity and trauma. My father, an alcoholic and abusive man, seemed to find pleasure in beating my mother without cause. My mother, though kind, was burdened with low self-esteem and a lack of self-worth—scars she carried from her own troubled childhood.
My father believed it acceptable to abandon his wife and four young sons for months, sometimes years, at a time, choosing instead to spend his days with other women. This left my mother raising us alone, with no financial, emotional, or family support. We lived in economically disadvantaged neighborhoods, often lacking sufficient food, shelter, and the basic necessities.
When I was about ten, my mother remarried, desperate for stability. But in her attempt to rebuild, she unknowingly brought a “wolf” into our fragile home. In the years that followed, I suffered abuse at the hands of this man—my stepfather—as well as my Little League coach and a first-grade teacher, while my mother remained oblivious. By age 12, I had been cast off to the juvenile system, where violence and physical abuse at the hands of peers my own age became a daily reality.
I share this portion of my life because it frames why I hold on so tightly to the most precious memory I’ve ever known: dancing with my nieces, Kayla and Daniella. The day I met them, something stirred inside me—something I hadn’t felt before. Love. Hope. Maybe even a sense of worth. These two sweet girls saw something in me that made them trust and love me instantly and wholly. Their parents, both addicts, were neglectful of their needs and wants. Having lived through a similar story myself, I was determined not to let history repeat itself in their lives.
I began visiting my brother’s home to spend time with the girls while their parents stayed in their room, getting high. We watched cartoons, played with dolls, and found ways to brighten their days. As their parents’ arguments and fights grew worse, I started taking the girls to my mom’s house. There, I ensured they ate, bathed, and had fun. We had pillow fights, wrestling matches, and outdoor adventures. I’d spin them around like airplanes, their laughter filling the air.
Oddly enough, during those times with them, I felt something new: safety. For the first time in my life, I felt safe. Ironically, I thought I was the one helping them feel safe. One day, I decided to put on some music—country, of course. I moved the furniture to create a makeshift dance floor and, like a proper gentleman, asked them if they would dance with me. They giggled, smiled, and, with great enthusiasm, jumped up and let me lead them to the floor. I don’t know how long we danced, but I remember their huge smiles and the sparkle in their love-filled eyes as I twirled them around. We belted out the lyrics to Shania Twain, Faith Hill, Tim McGraw, and Clint Black. We slow danced and free danced, laughing and spinning. For our last dance, I held Kayla in one arm and Daniella in the other as they wrapped their little arms around my neck and squeezed me close. At that moment, the three of us were completely absorbed in one another’s love.
I didn’t know then that it would, in fact, be our last dance. Though I carry the deep sadness of having broken their hearts by repeating the very cycle my father started with me, I remain grateful for that moment in time. In those fleeting hours, we experienced love, peace, and happiness—feelings I like to believe have shaped who we’ve each become. Nearly 26 years later, I can still recall that day almost perfectly. And on some bad days—and even on some good days—we dance again. It wasn’t our last dance after all.
