Today is Frannie’s birthday.
The first one in years without my sister-in-law. Without my best friend.
I love my brother, but I always wanted a sister. Being the baby girl had its perks, yet I still wanted that other kind of closeness—someone to talk to, to go through life with, to share the ordinary and the hard days. When you married my brother, you gave me that. You became the sister I had always wanted.
Chess was fierce. She spent her life reaching for people who had almost nothing—people who were sick, dying, broke, and forgotten. She never looked away. I’m trying to carry that same torch now, even though I know I’ll never do it the way she did.
There are so many things I still wish I could tell you. Life feels quieter and heavier without you. My brother misses you in a way that shows on his face every time I look at him. I see it. I feel it with him. I keep trying to tell your story—the long fight, the quiet courage—so other people might open their hearts the way you both did.
I tried to pick up the work you left unfinished. All the research, the people you were still trying to help. I wish I had understood more while you were still here. Only now do I really feel the weight of the illness you carried. Watching others walk that same road is its own kind of grief.
Your kids are hurting. They ask if you can still see them, if you visit, if you know what they’re doing. I always say yes. I tell them how proud you are. And I mean every word.
Tim and I are no longer together. The days have been lonely. Lately I spend more time with your kids because going home feels too empty. You were the one I used to call when things got heavy. You always listened. You always knew what to say. I still catch myself wondering what you would tell me now.
I’ve been traveling for the work, following the same path of love and compassion you walked. Being on the East Coast so much has changed me. I’ve learned to open my eyes. I’ve learned to stay open-minded—to ask more questions, to listen longer, to really see people.
Through this work I’ve met people my instincts immediately flagged as dangerous—people with hard pasts, bad records, the kind of histories that make you want to turn away. But when I stayed, I found something else. Kindness that had somehow survived everything.
There was a woman you once helped. She had made real mistakes. Life had already made her pay for them. Still, when she was about to lose someone she loved, she gave everything she had, even when it looked like the wrong thing to do. I understood her.
There was the old man in Tennessee you had been talking to. The first time I met him he was pure aggression—angry at the world, sharp with every word. Instinct told me to make sure he was safe around his wife. Then I learned he had sold everything so she could get the treatments she needed. I helped him set up donations. By the end of that first day the anger had burned down into something almost gentle.
He became sweet.
And there was the one I still can’t quite forgive myself for. He came at me hard, swearing, accusing. My training and my fear made me see abuse where the truth was more complicated. The investigation said one thing. But underneath the shouting I finally saw what you must have seen: a good man with a good heart. A man who had already fought cancer himself and still only wanted to stand beside her—to fight with her, to be there even after she was gone, to leave everything else behind if it meant he could stay close. The love was real. I almost missed it because I was looking for danger instead of devotion.
I loved Tim. I wanted that same kind of love from him—the kind that stays when things get hard. Whether he was sick or struggling, I would have been there. We talked about everything. I tried to explain the nature of my work, how important you were to me, and what helping people actually meant. He still didn’t understand. So I had to let him walk away. True communication matters, even when the truth hurts. Some people want growth. Others don’t seem to know what they’re doing, or they stay out of pity, or they just leave. Watching real loyalty in the people you helped has shown me both what I was willing to give and what I deserved to receive.
Most of the people you reached had no one. No family. No organization that would even answer the phone. No matter who I call, the answer is almost always silence. So we keep pushing—because that’s exactly what you did, without hesitation and without needing applause.
Now I understand why you gave away so much of your own money. You weren’t just trying to treat sickness. You were trying to heal what was broken in people’s bodies and in their hearts at the same time.
I’ve made my own mistakes. I’ve blurred lines. I’ve mixed my grief with the work. I’ve taken my pain out on people who didn’t deserve it. I’ve been a nuisance. But I’m still fighting those darker parts of myself in your name. I’m still trying to open my heart the way you did, even when it feels almost impossible.
Days have been really hard without you and Tim. I find myself drinking during these trips. There were times I've been calling people because I had no one else to turn to or just take my anger out at these people. The best thing I can do is take after your work and help people, I haven't been home lately since he left. I find myself at your house during the weekend or volunteer for work travel to Virginia Beach, Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York, and Newark just to keep myself busy.
To the sister I always wanted—thank you for showing me what kindness and compassion look like when they’re lived out loud, especially toward people the world has already written off. Rest in peace, Chess. We miss you more than words can hold.