I still mother them….

People who haven’t lived through this kind of loss see an empty chair.

I don’t.

I see Vincent with that smile that could light up a room. I hear his laugh before I can even picture his face. I know exactly where he’d be sitting, who he’d be teasing, and the joke he’d make just when the room got a little too quiet.

I see Gabriella.

I can still hear her voice. I can still picture the look on her face when she was making a point, and you knew she wasn’t backing down. She loved fiercely. She loved her children with everything she had. She loved her family, and she loved her friends.

Those chairs aren’t empty.

They’re filled with memories.

They’re filled with laughter.

They’re filled with stories that still deserve to be told.

As August approaches and Face the Facts Delaware begins preparing for another Overdose Awareness Month, I find myself thinking about empty chairs even more.

Not just the two at my table.

All of them.

I think about the families we’ll meet on September 12th. The parents carrying pictures of their children. The husbands and wives. The brothers and sisters. The children who are growing up with memories instead of moments.

Every one of them has an empty chair.

And every one of those chairs has a story.

I also think about Deanna.

She was one of Gabriella’s best friends.

She was a beautiful young woman with a beautiful smile. She loved mochi. She loved trying crazy recipes just to see how they’d turn out. She had people who loved her, dreams she was still chasing, and a life that mattered.

Those are the things I want people to know.

Not just how someone died.

Who they were while they were here.

I wish more people understood that.

When someone dies, we have a tendency to let the last chapter become the entire book.

But Vincent was never just the worst day of his life.

He was my son.

He loved to laugh, make people laugh, and somehow always found a way to lighten the room.

Gabriella was never defined by the struggles she faced.

She was my daughter.

She was funny, compassionate, stubborn, fiercely protective of the people she loved, and an incredible mom.

Deanna wasn’t defined by the way her story ended either.

She was a friend.

She was loved.

She was so much more than one moment.

That’s why I do what I do.

Face the Facts Delaware isn’t about death.

It’s about life.

It’s about making sure families know they aren’t alone.

It’s about replacing stigma with understanding.

It’s about teaching people that addiction is a disease, not a moral failing.

It’s about making sure another family doesn’t have to pull up another empty chair.

When people come to Overdose Awareness Day, I hope they don’t leave remembering the statistics.

I hope they remember the faces.

I hope they remember the names.

I hope they remember that every memorial sign represents someone whose favorite meal, favorite song, biggest dream, and loudest laugh are still remembered by someone who loves them.

Because that’s what an empty chair really is.

It’s not an empty space.

It’s a place still filled with love.

Love that doesn’t end.

Love that doesn’t forget.

Love that keeps telling the stories of Vincent.

Of Gabriella.

Of Deanna.

And of every person whose life mattered long before the world ever knew how their story ended.

Because as long as we keep saying their names…

As long as we keep sharing their stories…

Those chairs will never truly be empty.