"Too often we bottle up the brokenness, afraid of being perceived as trashy, less-than, damaged, or undesirable."I was away for my freshman year of college when I learned that my mother had shot herself three times at a gas station parking lot 1,000 miles from home. She was high and on the phone with my grandmother, trying to make her feel guilty.
Both of my parents were teenagers when I was born. My birth certificate lists them at 15 and 16 years old, respectively. My father chose to live his own life without my mother and I, and when I was five, my mother married the man I called “dad,” Jeff McGuire. He adopted me and raised me as his own. I was a McGuire from then on, a McGuire by choice, and that feeling was mutual.
He made a choice that he didn’t have to make. He could have washed his hands of me, but he continued to raise me, and eventually, we went into business together, a dynamic dad-daughter duo. He was a builder for decades in Central Illinois and I spent countless days on job sites, watching, listening, learning and soaking it all up.
My grandpa is my best friend. He tells me that days after I was born, he drove me around in his car and showed me off to all his friends. He would literally do the same thing today if I let him. Even with their love and support, I was not spared the trauma of losing my dad, Jeff, of pancreatic cancer much too soon, having an addict mother and absent biological father.
We know what it’s like to raise children in a home as a single parent. We know what it’s like to manage a family in a home with two working parents. We know what it’s like to run a home where we entertain the neighbors and bring joy to others’ lives, where we run a home that has aging parents, or children with special needs.
I love this story and the strength of character behind Nicole. I can't help but love the love she had for her adopted father and his unwavering commitment to get welfare. Remain strong and undeterred.👍🏽👍🏽👍🏽