My partner and I had been together for ten years before our lives were forever changed. Between the two of us, we had seven children. She had four boys, and I had two boys and a girl. Our story began years ago on a site called BlackPlanet. At that time, she lived in D.C., and I was in Florida. For a year, we navigated the challenges of a long-distance relationship, talking almost every day, dreaming of a future together. Eventually, she made the life-changing decision to move here with two of her four boys. Blending families is never simple, but after time, patience, and love, we found our rhythm.
Our oldest boy, James, had left home at sixteen, unwilling to follow our house rules. After our two boys under him graduated high school, the house became quieter. The usual Friday night football excitement dwindled. Play fights in the living room were rare. The big boys’ friends no longer raided our fridge; they were busy with college and jobs. It was an adjustment, a stark contrast to the chaos we’d grown used to.
We had always thought about having a child together. We had even picked names and explored ways to make it happen. As her children started having kids of their own, the idea faded—our lives were filled with the freedom of being grandparents, traveling, and enjoying the flexibility of a quieter home.
During this time, I began seeing a therapist for depression and PTSD, and eventually persuaded Shon to do the same. On Thursday, December 8, 2016, Shon returned from her session, and we went to Checkers for dinner. We laughed, recounting her therapist’s advice to set boundaries with me because she was “spoiling me too much.” After dinner, we settled in for the night. Around 10:15 p.m., the house phone rang. I had fallen asleep, but the ringer woke me. Neither of us answered—it was a number we didn’t recognize, and we rarely used that phone. When it rang again, and then a third time, I sensed urgency in her voice.
I asked, “Babe, what’s going on? Is it Mama? Is it Josh?” Shon emerged from the bathroom, panic etched on her face. “James has been shot,” she said. My heart sank. I jumped out of bed, threw on clothes, and we headed to the hospital in silence.
As we drove, Facebook messages poured in asking if he was okay. I ignored them, thinking it was minor—maybe a graze or a superficial injury. I mentally prepared to scold him for whatever trouble he had gotten into. But then the news broke online: the victim had succumbed to his injuries. I didn’t believe it, and I didn’t tell Shon what I’d read. As we approached the hospital, James’s girlfriend’s father pulled up beside us and explained it had been her ex-boyfriend—jealousy had turned violent. At that moment, I realized our son, known for his infectious smile and humor, had been deliberately targeted. I panicked, losing control of the car. Shon took over driving, navigating us to the hospital safely.
In the emergency room, we were met by friends of James and his girlfriend’s family. We paced the halls, begging staff to let us see him. I clung to faith, praying God would not take him from us, from his two-year-old daughter, or from those who loved him. Then I saw her—a nurse standing off to the side, arms folded. She was waiting for our reaction when the news we feared was delivered. My chest tightened.
Suddenly, a police officer entered, asking for the mother’s name and phone number. I gave them, then froze as she began speaking. I caught only one word: “unfortunately.” Panic consumed me; I hyperventilated and fainted. When I awoke in a hospital bed, I ran to Shon, meeting our son Josh, who had Ubered from Miami after learning of James’s shooting.
The following days were steeped in grief as the circumstances of James’s death became clear. He had been shot by his girlfriend’s ex, the father of her unborn child, who had threatened James and wished harm on his own child. Weeks before, James had asked if we would accept and love the baby as his own. Shon barely spoke, barely ate, and spent her days staring into space. I had no time to grieve—she needed me, and I had to be strong for both of us.
The house was quiet, save for the soft cries from other rooms. Overwhelmed, I called the medical examiner, only to be told I needed a funeral home to retrieve James’s body. Anger and disbelief overtook me. “He is not a body!” I screamed. Eventually, a funeral home friend came, bringing the necessary forms and allowing us time with him.
I recalled conversations with Shon about our own memorial wishes. I had insisted, jokingly, I would kiss her body no matter what. She had laughed, refusing. Now, it was James. The next day, with the pastor by our side, we entered the funeral home. Shon cupped his face, rested her forehead on his, and wept. I kissed him, noticing he was still soft and beautiful. After this, we began preparations for his memorial service, a brief two-hour ceremony with a viewing followed by cremation.
The holidays were unbearable, yet we chose to honor James by helping other children. Through our Second Mom Facebook page, we raised money to fulfill Christmas wishes for eight families, including children of murdered parents. We wrapped and delivered gifts, savoring the videos of their joy. On Christmas, Shon and I sat silently, comforted only by the smiles on the screens. New Year’s Eve was heavier, as we faced the new year without him.
Court proceedings stretched on for months. Despite our grief, we embraced James’s wishes and became the guardians of his ex-girlfriend’s unborn child. Many called us foolish, but we knew love had no boundaries. We baked cookies, made a belly mold, accompanied her to appointments, and were present for the baby’s birth, bringing James’s urn to be near him.
Shon eventually lost her job, and our relationship deteriorated under the weight of grief. In June 2017, she found purpose again caring for a six-month-old foster baby, a joy that slowly returned her smile. One day, her older brother came along, unloved and neglected. We took him in, changing his life. By Thanksgiving, the children spent the holiday with us, but we were horrified to discover the boy had been abused. We rushed him to the hospital, where police and DCF intervened.
For two weeks, our 1,150-square-foot home housed eight children. Exhaustion became routine. Eventually, more children joined our family, and Shon and I separated. I became the sole custodian of the younger three and my older children at home, navigating depression and grief while learning the strength I never knew I had.
By October 2018, the biological parents had not completed their case plan, and their rights were terminated. I was asked if I would adopt the trio—Zachariah, Zendaya, and Zariah. Of course, we said yes. On November 22, 2019, National Adoption Day, they became ours forever. We honored James by incorporating his middle name into theirs: De’Angelo and De’Angela.
A moment of divine timing struck us—the youngest had been born December 7, 2016, just a day before James was killed. In our heartbreak, God had already ordained joy and purpose.
In February 2020, justice was served. After years of hearings, jury selection, and a mistrial, the killer was sentenced to 45 years. Though James was gone, God had given us three more lives to love.
Today, Welcome 2 The Zoocus thrives. The younger three are the “zoo,” and the older three the “cus” for circus. Our home, chaotic and full of life, is my antidepressant. Donntrell, Jamell, and Jachelle help me every day, sharing love and space with the younger three. Shon moved to California, leaving the memories behind. People often ask how I manage. I simply say, “God gave His toughest battles to the strongest soldiers,” and I am doing what I was meant to do.
My children are unique, strong, and full of personality. I cannot imagine life without them. People call me an angel; I say I’m just a person God used. When asked how many kids I have, I smile and say, “Six,” because the love we share transcends explanation. Ultimately, I strive to live up to my name—Michelle, “One who is like God.” Though many were saved, I know I, too, have been saved.
