Claudette was the first person I spoke with outside a home. She lived six hours away and happened to be visiting when we met.
She spoke about her parents, her deep love for her father, and a mother who never once said “I love you.”
As with so many of these conversations, it’s the quiet, human details that stay with me. Claudette carried her father’s ashes through his childhood home, a place now crumbling and unlivable, yet still holding the story of where he began.
For much of her life, her mother kept her from her father, disapproving of his background and family. What remained was a relationship shaped by love, distance, and restraint.
This is Claudette’s story.
(there is no image to go with these stories)
