Lady Sandalyn

Sandalyn of the Dawn

A tribute to my Aunt Sandy — the woman who shaped my light.

Some women move through the world in a way that makes you believe in something bigger. That was my Aunt Sandy — or, as I call her here, Sandalyn of the Dawn. She was tall and naturally beautiful, the kind of woman who didn’t need much makeup because her presence did most of the work for her. Men stared. Women noticed. And she carried herself with a quiet confidence that made you want to rise to her level.

She was the closest thing I had to a mother.

I was five when my life split in two. My brothers and I were dropped off at her doorstep on my birthday. My mother said she was “running to the store.” Hours later she called to say she wasn’t coming back. My aunt was only seventeen — practically a child herself — but she didn’t hesitate. She would’ve raised all three of us if she’d been allowed to. Instead, my dad came for us, and ten long years passed before our paths crossed again in the way that mattered.

I was fifteen when the State of Michigan became my legal guardian. My father’s decision — made to keep his wife happy — would haunt him for the rest of his life. I remember sitting in a children’s shelter, waiting to find out where I would be placed. Foster care. Maybe a group home. Maybe nothing familiar at all.

On a whim, I called my aunt.

She answered.

She listened.

She said yes.

She was newly married then, with a two-year-old daughter. When she came to get me, she had a stretch limo waiting — not for me, but because she and her husband were heading to Greek Town for a night out. That was her, though. Dramatic. Fun. Full of life.

She lived in Troy, Michigan, in a beautiful home with her father — a former milk man who, despite the jokes, had built an impressive life and an impressive fortune. He was grumpy, rough around the edges, and wealthy enough to prove that every life path can look different than people expect.

I’ll never forget the first time she looked me over.

I was a tomboy.

Short hair.

Smoked Marlboro Reds like the boys I grew up around.

She gave me one look and said, “If you’re going to smoke in my house, you’ll smoke what a lady smokes. Virginia Slim Menthol Lights. The lights make it more honest.”

I didn’t argue. I was just amazed she let me smoke at all. No more stealing cigarettes. No more having my stepmom crush them in front of me.

That moment was the start of everything she taught me — everything she nurtured in me — that I didn’t even know I needed.

My aunt became the mother, sister, and role model I had never really known. She gave me a wardrobe and showed me how to dress like a young woman instead of a kid trying to survive. She taught me how to speak, how to carry myself, and which words had no place in my vocabulary. If I said “ain’t,” she lost her mind. She swore that word was nowhere in the dictionary.

She taught me how to set a table, how to sit at one, how to take care of a house, how to grocery shop, how to manage money, how to plan for a future I hadn’t imagined I’d even have. She showed me how to cook, how to drive, and how to use a riding lawn mower. She taught me about responsibility, dignity, and self-respect.

She gave me the home I didn’t know I was allowed to have.

There was tension between her and my mother — half sisters, different fathers, too many secrets and comparisons. I didn’t understand it then, but I saw it clearly as I grew older. Still, despite that history, she chose me. She stood by me. She became the role model my heart had been craving since I was little.

Life carried me away from her again for a while. Years passed. When I eventually made it back to Michigan, I found out she had become a widow… and then that she had brain cancer.

My middle brother and I went to see her. I was terrified. When she opened the door, she looked the same — still beautiful — except for the swelling in her face from the steroids. I wanted to hug her, but I froze. She watched me quietly. Maybe with pride. Maybe with sadness for all the time we lost. Maybe both.

She whispered, barely audible, “I don’t know why your mom left you kids. I don’t know what her problem was. I’ll never understand it.” Her eyes dropped. She carried pieces of that story that I’ll never know.

She told us she was cured. She wasn’t.

A week later, her daughter called to say my aunt didn’t have much time. She had hidden the truth, not out of fear, but because she was strong — and proud — until her final breath.

My brother and I rushed to her home. Her girls surrounded her, singing the rock songs she loved. We helped adjust her bandages. We held space for her. She had just made it to her daughter’s wedding weeks before. She held on long enough to see that moment.

Then, at only sixty-two years old, she was gone.

Even at the end, she was beautiful.

Strong.

Private.

Full of grace.

Sandalyn of the Dawn.

My aunt.

My mother figure.

My rescuer.

The woman who taught me how to be a lady, how to be capable, and how to see a future for myself.

Some lights don’t dim when they leave.

They just pass themselves on.

for generations to come.