November and December have always been trigger months for me as they are for millions of people in this country. The concept of “family” is such a central theme for Thanksgiving and Christmas. When you don’t have a loving and affectionate family, the holidays fall flat. There’s a reason suicides spike during this time of the year.

It took me decades to toss my emotional baggage out the window so that I could survive the two months without any significant depression. Then, six years ago, I lost the only mother figure I ever had. My Aunt Estelle had occupied a central place in my life since my earliest memories. Where my mom failed, Estelle persevered. She never made me feel unloved or unwanted. Over the years, I failed her. I didn’t visit when I could have, and I didn’t call when I should have.

When I came out as gay, she accepted me without question. She wanted me to be happy, and I saw the smile in her eyes when I told her I was. My dissociative identity disorder sent me to prison at age thirty-nine, but she never looked down on me. She kept in contact and found money to send when I knew she didn’t have it. Her words gave me hope when I had none.

In March 2011, her husband of sixty years passed. On his deathbed, Uncle Cliff asked me to take care of her. I left my job and moved into her home within a week of his passing.

I soon realized my aunt had problems. Although I had to trick her to attend the appointment, a psychologist diagnosed her with Alzheimer’s. For the next six-and-a-half years—and after she broke both her hips in separate incidents—I made sure she had what she wanted and needed. She had a massive stroke and died in hospice on November 21, 2017, at age ninety-eight.

At her funeral, I gave the eulogy in which I chastised those in attendance for not being there for her in life—for failing to call and visit—all the things I’d been guilty of earlier in my life. I know my words projected guilt of my own, but I also wanted them to feel the sting.

Since burying Estelle, I’ve grieved for her every day. If not for my husband, I don’t know what I would have done these past six years. He kept me from being lost and alone. I’ve been estranged from my immediate family since a couple of months before my uncle passed away. Without Estelle, I had only a cousin left, and she lived hundreds of miles away.

I’m not sure how many years I’ll grieve at this time of year. At least I’m grieving someone I loved instead of having my holidays ruined by family members I didn’t. I’ll forever be thankful for what Aunt Estelle and Uncle Cliff did for me. They gave me the love and support I needed as a small child, as a teenager, and as an adult—three stages where I was broken and lost.

I miss you, Estelle. You too, Cliff. Thank you for believing in me.