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(My love and my loss - handling the murder of a daughter - Column)
My daughter, Shawna, was taken from me by violence. I always dreamed that I would watch her grow up, get married, have children of her own and make fun of my graying hair. Instead I buried her just two months after her twentieth birthday.
When I arrived home after work on February 19, 1993, I didn't think much of the fact that Shawna's car wasn't there. I told myself she just wasn't home yet. I was making dinner when her boyfriend called. He was concerned, but I reassured him that she was probably with her godson. She adored that baby. But then her godson's mother called and asked us if we had seen her because she hadn't picked up the baby yet.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, and my heart flew into my throat. Shawna was very responsible, and this was completely out of character. I began to pray, but I tried not to panic. I was sure that any minute she would pull into the driveway.
Then I went to her room and saw her coat in the closet and her purse on the bed. Why was she out in the freezing cold without her coat? Where would she go without her purse? Now I was frightened. I called Daryl back and asked him to come over so that we could try to figure out where Shawna could be. Were we forgetting something? Did she have a meeting or class to attend that evening? Everything kept coming up blank. We decided to call the police.
I had beard that a person had to be missing for 24 hours before the police would take a report. But when I called, they took my information without protest. That cheered me up a bit. Still, I kept hoping to hear the sound of her car chugging into the driveway. Suddenly Daryl screamed and ran into the living room. He told me to call the police. Shawna was in the bathtub. She had been strangled.
The following months were like a nightmare. Each day was more of a struggle than the last. just to get up and leave the house was almost too much. It seemed that everywhere I looked - on the television or in the newspapers - there were other mothers who were suffering the loss of their children.
I had to do something. But what? Nothing would bring back my child. Maybe if mothers suffering this very special grief came together we could ease our pain. We could act as support to one another. Why not make a place where we could talk about our children and work toward recovery and healing in our own lives and in those of our other children and loved ones?
I founded Mothers of Murdered Offspring (M.O.M.-O.) for that purpose. Although our name begins with the word Mothers, we welcome anyone who has suffered a loss. We want to heal not only our own families but also those around us.
My heart still aches when I think of Shawna. The numbness has worn off. I wake up with my pain, and I lie don with it. My mind plays tricks on me, and I sometimes hear Shawna's laugh. I glimpse her in the mirror, trying a new hairstyle or testing my lipsticks. When those memories come, all I can do is pray.
I realize how blessed I was to have her as long as I did. Remembering those years sustains me now. Shawna was a shy beautiful and loving young woman. Her smile lit up a room. She and I were friends and confidantes. We giggled over silly things and talked each other through hard choices. We had our mothers-daughter disputes, but she respected my opinion.
My work with M.O.M.-O. has given me hope. Every, child has a right to a future. When I speak at schools and around the city and across the country, I know only one thing can stem the flow of violence in our communities: It is love. And love is only truly, love when you give it away. Shawna would be so happy to know that I love her enough to keep living.
Dee Sumpter is the mother of three other children and the founder of M.O.M.-O. in Charlotte, North Carolina.
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