You’re always someone’s child

The early days of the pandemic were all one big figuring-out period. Yet, I do remember that call. 

At the time, my mother and grandmother were roommates, but the bond was so much deeper than that. They were soulmates. Following my parents’ divorce in 1988, my mom and I moved from Salisbury, North Carolina, to live with my grandmother in Ettrick, Virginia. Ettrick became home. I still remember the phone number — it’s unforgettable.

That day in 2020, they wanted to talk about a basketball player they had never heard of, but for whom their heart bled. That player was Karl-Anthony Towns, the No. 1 pick in the 2015 NBA draft. His mother, Jacqueline Cruz-Towns, had recently died from COVID-19, a disease I believe played a part in my mother’s condition today.

They didn’t know him. But they were mothers. They were daughters. And they couldn’t stop talking about him. In a way, they became protective of the player simply known as KAT — a young man trying to find his way in the world without his mom. They didn’t know how many points or rebounds he averaged. They didn’t even know what an All-Star Game was. They didn’t care. A maternal instinct never cared about a box score.

​“It doesn’t matter how old you get,” I remember my grandmother saying. “You’re always someone’s child.”

My mom, approaching 70 at the time, said, “That’s my biggest fear — living without my mom.” She said this as her mother sat beside her.

​Their prayers for Towns were simple. This was a young man they would never meet. But my grandmother kept a “prayer cup” in the living room of her house. I sold that same house, the only home I’d ever known, the summer after she passed. I haven’t been back to Ettrick since.

In that prayer cup, though, both she and my mother wrote the name “Karl-Anthony Towns.” They prayed for him. They prayed that the pain he felt then would somehow manifest into the peace every child deserves after losing a parent.

The conversation felt heavy then. Six years later, it stays with me. My grandmother died from dementia in January 2025, starting a chain of events I still feel. My mother is slowly fading from Alzheimer’s.

​Now, when I mention Karl-Anthony Towns or his place in a potential New York Knicks championship to my mother, I get a blank stare. She once prayed for him; now she can’t remember him. I explain, and she seems to understand, but I doubt it. It’s a harsh reminder why Alzheimer’s is called “the long goodbye.”

I should remember this. I don’t remember this, but I’m going to remember it anyway.

Karl-Anthony Towns mourns Jacqueline, a mother who is no longer here. I mourn Karen, a mother who is — but increasingly isn’t.

Death cuts deep, leaving a painful new chapter. Alzheimer’s is a crawl to an ending that sometimes feels immoral. You lose someone repeatedly. I visit my mother at least five times a week, always asking questions about her life. Sometimes she remembers. Sometimes, even with pictures, she doesn’t.  

​That’s why I record our conversations. I ask about everything — from her high school years to why she convinced me to be a Dallas Cowboys fan only for her to abandon the team after years of disappointment. Her answers vary. If she remembers, she does. If she doesn’t, then we don’t dwell on it too long. That’s part of what they tell you in therapy. Retain what they retain. Never take forgetfulness personally.

Soon, these memories will only be fragments of a life slipping away. That’s why Towns’ memories of his mother resonate. He lost her suddenly, to a disease that paused an NBA season and claimed the lives of more than a million Americans.

​Success is not grief’s vaccine. It doesn’t heal absence or trauma. Karl-Anthony Towns is on the brink of a level of basketball euphoria the likes of which has rarely been achieved. Nonetheless, his mother’s presence remains at the forefront of his mind.

​

“I feel like other than losing a child, there’s nothing worse you could go through, and it builds you up, and it strengthens you beyond measure,” Towns told ESPN’s Scott Van Pelt. “That’s why I got Philippians 4:13 and the date tattooed on my neck. I could do all things through Christ who strengthens me, but I was strengthened on April 13 when I lost my mother. … What I do know is that I truly can do anything when I walk in faith, when I walk with the angels beside me … I feel nothing’s impossible.”

​My career — being on SportsCenter, becoming an essayist, attending Super Bowls and Jay-Z concerts, writing biographies — fulfills lifelong dreams. Yet, the woman who made it possible can’t fully share in these moments.

​It’s been the source of rage and grief — not necessarily asking why me, but why her. Not the woman who constantly put others’ happiness before her own. Not the woman who survived two divorces and still found purpose as trauma attempted to drown her. Not the woman whose constant reminders of “I’m proud of you” became grounding mechanisms when I often found myself losing touch with reality.

The answers I’m searching for don’t exist in this lifetime. They live in an eternity where my grandmother, my uncle and Towns’ mother live in bliss. That’s what I tell myself. That’s what I have to believe. I don’t think too much about whatever else is left for me to hopefully achieve. What plagues me is what she no longer remembers.

Last week, I sat with my mom on the edge of her bed. I showed her a picture of me as a 10-year-old standing beside her brother. This was three years before he died, and roughly about a year and a half before he first fell ill. She stared at the photo. Her mind was attempting to put the pieces together, but the answer never came. What did was a statement I’ll take with me for the remainder of my life.

​“I can’t be there with you,” she said with tears forming in her eyes. “But I’m always with you.”

A question that’s lived with me for the last several years is how to properly mourn someone who’s still here. And is it even fair to actually mourn?

Seeing my mother smile, especially over the last several weeks, has been soul-cleansing. Following a fall the day before my 40th birthday, my mom’s been in rehab and now an assisted living home 10 minutes from my house. Her grandchildren come to see her, making her instantly the most popular resident there.

One of her favorite things to do before she could no longer drive was going to the hair salon and nail shop. So I have her on a monthly schedule of both. She smiles. She talks to the stylists and technicians. She has a chance to feel “normal” when her new normal haunts her every day.

She’s a lifelong educator of young children. She’s a sorority sister (Delta Sigma Theta, thank you very much). She’s a fried chicken aficionado (extra crispy, please). She is Luther Vandross’ biggest fan. She’s a football fanatic — particularly for her alma mater, South Carolina State University, and all things Patrick Mahomes. She loved a good party and any excuse to dance. She’s also, along with my grandmother, my first best friend.

My mother had an entire, full life before Alzheimer’s. It’s not who she is. It’s what she battles. Every time I visit her, I interview her. I ask her questions and take pictures. I preserve her because it’ll be something to show my kids when they get older. A reminder that their grandmother loved them — even if she couldn’t love them in the way she always imagined. It’s a chance to honor her. It’s my chance to thank her for being my mother and thank God for allowing me to be her son.

I’m still blessed to be able to record my mother’s presence. Karl-Anthony Towns honors his by carrying her spirit with him. We both feel our mothers as we move throughout the world. It’s as my grandmother once said about Towns six years ago — we’re all someone’s child. How we live with honor and integrity reflects them. As Malcolm X wrote in his autobiography — the phrase I have tattooed on my right arm — “The mistakes are ours.”

Should Karl-Anthony Towns help complete the destiny that New York can taste right now, storybook doesn’t even begin to describe the level of euphoria it will bring. Fans will cry. They’ll climb light poles. There will be a social media rollout unprecedented for a fanbase. Bodegas may even hand out free chopped cheeses.

But as chaos and jubilation surround him, a son will look skyward. He’ll tell his mother he misses her. He’ll tell her how much he loves her. He’ll tell her just how much he wishes she could be there in that exact moment she made possible.

That feeling is one I know all too well — not because my mother is gone, but because every day I wake up and every night I close my eyes, her Alzheimer’s is a lesson that you don’t just lose someone when the second date is engraved on their tombstone. Sometimes you lose them repeatedly, as if the universe mentally and emotionally prepares you to part with a piece of your heart that can never be replaced.

Karl-Anthony Towns is almost a decade younger than me, yet I find myself learning a lot from him. His clarity and his refusal to let grief define him serve as a lesson: There are still ways to love those you’re losing, too.

Six years ago, my grandmother wrote Towns’ name on that slip of paper and placed it in her prayer cup. She was a mother who had once buried her son — and she sought peace for a son grieving his mother when there was still so much for him to learn from her.

That prayer hits so much differently now. Because she was right. And so was my mother.

You’re always someone’s child. And the most difficult reality to grasp is learning how to love a parent you’re slowly losing. But they’re always there for us — even when they aren’t there.

Karl-Anthony Towns could soon be an NBA champion. He could soon be a Finals MVP. But what he is already is more important than both. He’s a prayer now. He’s been one.

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