"There is a kind of strength that doesn't make a sound. It doesn't demand attention or take up space in the room. It simply runs underneath everything, holding the world together while the rest of us go about our lives."
Sketch of my mother, Charlotte, who was the inspiration for the character of Louisa in The Truthful Story. This treasured gift was created by my daughter-in-law, Rachel.
— From the upcoming sequel to The Truthful Story
Today marks my mother’s birthday. She has been gone for nineteen years now, but as any daughter who was also a best friend knows, "gone" is a relative term. No matter where I am, I only have to close my eyes to find her—perhaps standing where the afternoon light hits the Lowcountry marshes just right, or simply sitting in the quiet of the place where she grew up and felt most at home.
For those who have read The Truthful Story, you have already met a piece of her. The character of Louisa was inspired by my mother—her steadfast faith and a grace that never needed to be loud to be felt.
As a daughter, I knew her as my safest harbor. She was the person you could talk to about anything, knowing you would be met with an accepting heart rather than a judgmental word. She was so generous in her love, allowing herself to be vulnerable while possessing a strength I’m only now beginning to fully measure.
The truth is, I never knew how strong she really was until after she was gone. It was as if she had an invisible strength running underneath the surface of her life—a quiet, steady power that held everything together in ways we didn't even realize at the time. She carried her world with a grace that was as deep as the river and just as constant.
She had a rare gift for making every place feel like home. As she got older, she would come to stay with me or my brothers often, and we always cherished our time with her. It didn't matter whose roof we were under; when Mama was there, home felt more special, more settled, and more complete. She didn't need a specific set of walls to create a sanctuary; she carried that sanctuary within her.
As I approach the tenth anniversary of my first book, I am writing the next one, and I feel her beside me once again. I am returning to the world of the Gibson family, traveling back in my mind to the landscape that defines so much of who she was, and who I am.
I hope, through my writing journey, I can continue to capture even a fraction of the grace she carried. Happy Birthday, Mama. I’m still listening, and I’m still writing.