A Love That Never Left: Remembering My Cousin Fran

There are some people in life who become more than family—they become your safe place, your truth teller, your person.

For me, that was my cousin Fran.

We grew up in different states, but distance never mattered. Staying connected was effortless. We could talk for hours—about life, love, and everything in between. We were both Aries, just one year apart, with only a day between our birthdays—hers on April 12, 1970, and mine on April 11, 1969. That connection was real. It was deep.

Fran was the one I could always go to. She never sugarcoated anything. She told the truth, even when it was hard to hear—and I respected that about her.

But there was one thing she did sugarcoat… her illness.

March 2013 — A Visit I’ll Never Forget

After my dad passed, I went to visit Fran in Charlotte NC. It was March.

The first place she took me was Chick-fil-A. She knew how much I loved it—that was just who she was: thoughtful, intentional, always thinking about others.

But when I saw her, I knew something wasn’t right. She looked frail. I asked if she was okay, and she said yes.

Still, deep down, I felt something—that quiet feeling you try to ignore because you don’t want it to be true.

Grief, Life Changes, and Holding On

April 2013 was another difficult time. My marriage ended, and I was already deep in depression from losing my dad.

Through it all, Fran was there. She talked me through my darkest moments. She listened, supported me, and held space for me—even while she was going through something herself.

In May 2013, I ran a half marathon in honor of my dad. Fran cheered me on from Charlotte. Some days, as I walked, we talked.

When the Silence Started

By the end of May, things began to change. Phone calls turned into texts. Conversations got shorter. Her energy felt different.

On May 31st at 6:20 AM, I texted her:

“Are you okay?”

She replied:

“Hello. Yesterday was an interesting day. What I thought to be trapped gas was muscle spasms.”

I tried calling her, but she told me she wasn’t really talking to anyone and had taken pain medicine around 1 AM.

Looking back, I see it now. But at the time, I didn’t want to believe what my heart already knew.

June 2013 — The Final Days

On June 19th, she told me she had been admitted to the hospital with pneumonia.

I told her I loved her. I told her I was praying for her. I sent her our picture from that March visit.

She told me she loved me too.

We texted again on June 20th and June 22nd. She said she was feeling a little better. I told her to listen to the doctors. She said she was trying.

Then… silence.

On June 24th at 3:39 PM, her daughter told me she was sleeping.

On June 26th at 3:38 PM, I texted again, hoping for good news. Instead, her daughter replied.

My cousin Fran—my beautiful baby cousin—had passed away at 43 years old from colon cancer.

 

The Moment Everything Changed

My heart dropped. I screamed. I couldn’t believe it.

I had just lost my dad, my best friend, my marriage—and now Fran. It felt like too much.

At the time, I was working for a company that didn’t understand grief. After my dad passed, I was told, “Oh, I thought you would have been back to work earlier.” Those words never left me. That was my wake-up call to a world that didn’t make space for grief.

And sadly, I was right. Not long after, they let me go.

The Regret I Carry

I didn’t go to her funeral.

That’s something I still carry. Looking back, I should have gone anyway. I should have chosen her, no matter what.

But grief doesn’t always let you think clearly. Sometimes you’re just trying to survive.

What I Hold Onto Now

What I know today is this:

Fran loved me. She showed up for me. She walked with me through some of the hardest moments of my life—even while she was fighting her own battle.

That kind of love doesn’t leave.

I still hear her voice sometimes, telling me the truth just like she always did—no sugarcoating, just love.

A Reflection

Grief changes you. But it also reminds you how deeply you’ve loved—and been loved in return.

 

Fran will always be part of my story, just like my dad. And I will continue to speak their names.

Because their lives mattered.

Their love mattered.

And it still does.

 

Happy Heavenly Birthday, Fran.