The Truth About Raising My Children

Over the years, I’ve heard a story repeated that my son, Matt, was raised by his grandmother Chris. I want to lovingly and clearly set the record straight: that is not true.

From the moment Matt and Briana were born, they were my responsibility, and I never gave that up. Between 1985 and 1990, Bird (their biological father) and I lived off and on with his parents, and at other times in several different places of our own. Life was unstable and filled with the chaos of addiction and abuse, but one thing never changed—my children were always with me.

At one point, in my desperation for a better life, I even took Matt and Briana with me to Ohio, believing that if I could just change our surroundings, I could change our lives. But what I didn’t understand then was that it wasn’t about moving to a new address—it was about changing me.

That realization came on April 6, 1990. I was twenty-three years old, with two children, and completely worn down. Just three months earlier, in January, I had finally secured my own Section 8 house. For the first time, we had a place that was ours. That gave us stability. And then in April, when I entered recovery, I found hope. Together, those two milestones gave me the courage to step into motherhood in a new and healthier way.

This doesn’t mean I was alone in raising my kids. Family played important roles in their lives. They offered love, guidance, and presence that I will always be grateful for. Chris, especially, was and still is an important part of our lives. Matt and Briana were very close to their Grandma Chris and their Grandpa Joe, until his passing when Matt was five and Briana was three. Chris has been a beloved part of our family and community, and she continues to be close to us to this very day.

But here is the truth: Chris did not raise Matt or Briana. I did. Raising my children was my sacred responsibility, and although I stumbled and made many mistakes, I carried that responsibility every single day.

As adults, life naturally shifted. Matt chose to live with his grandmother when he was grown, and he was living in her home on Whitehall Circle when he was tragically murdered at just twenty-two years old. That does not change the truth of his childhood, nor the bond that defined our years together.

Now, as a grandmother myself, I see this distinction more clearly than ever. I play a big role in my grandchildren’s lives—I give them love, presence, and support—but I am not raising them. Their parents are. And that difference matters, because raising a child is more than being involved; it is carrying the responsibility day in and day out, through the pain, the growth, the lessons, and the love.

This is the truth about raising my children.