One More Thing

A Saturday morning reflection on love, constancy, and the people who quietly hold our lives together.

May 23, 2026

Story

Circa 1973. The mall craze had hit New Jersey, and that is where everyone wanted to be. So on a Saturday morning, that’s exactly where I was with my Mom, Eddie, and my Grandmother.

Eddie is my Mom’s youngest brother. We are three years apart. On that particular day, he was seven and I was four.

At four years old, labels meant nothing to me. Eddie was just Eddie. It would be years before I understood that the world saw him differently because he has Down syndrome.

We had just ridden the elevator up to the top level at Livingston Mall. We were in Macy’s, marveling at the newness of it all. The shiny floors. The crowds. The excitement of this enormous place that felt magical to a little kid.

The elevator doors opened and, as most four-year-olds would do, I jumped off.

But no one else did.

And as I turned around, the worst possible thing happened. The elevator doors closed while my Mom, Grandma, and Eddie were still inside. And down they went.

I was alone.

Guess what I did?

I started wailing so loudly that I can still remember the feeling of not being able to breathe because I was crying so hard. Pure panic. The kind only a little kid can feel.

Not knowing what else to do, I started walking and crying and somehow found an escalator going up. I looked down one level and saw my Mom and Grandma.

And Eddie.

He had heard me crying.

And what was Eddie doing?

He was furiously trying to climb the down escalator to get to me.

In that instant, I stopped crying.

Eddie to the rescue.

I do not really remember what happened after that. I am sure my mother got to me within moments. But what I do remember is this:

I found my breath when I saw Eddie.

Even as a little girl, I somehow knew that if Eddie could find me, everything was going to be okay.

In the years since, Eddie has shifted places in my life, but he has always been there. And I am so grateful for that.

As we grew older together, the protectiveness shifted too. At some point, I became aware that Eddie needed to be “protected” because he was different. That realization became painfully clear one morning while walking to Tony’s Deli in Irvington where we grew up, a ritual Eddie and I shared often.

On this particular morning, a neighborhood girl came outside. She was a little older than me. I did not know her well.

But when she saw Eddie, she yelled something cruel.

“Look, he’s retarded!”

I remember every second of that moment.

Instinctively, I moved Eddie to my right side and fired back a few choice words of my own. But sadly, moments like that would not be the last. Kids can be mean. Not all kids. But the ones who have never been taught tolerance, compassion, or how to see differences without cruelty.

As we got older, I learned more and more about Eddie. His habits. His strengths. His weaknesses. His obsessions.

Birthdays.
Music.
Family.
Sports.

And what I now lovingly call the “Eddie-isms.”

There are so many.

Some have evolved over the years, but some have remained remarkably constant.

Eddie keeps a calendar and rarely forgets a birthday, especially for the people closest to him. And once someone enters Eddie’s circle, they stay there. My boyfriend Lee, who Eddie absolutely adores, is now one of those people too.

And then there is music.

No matter what artist you mention, Eddie will immediately say, “I have that CD.”

And honestly? He probably does.

What amazes me most is that from a mathematical standpoint, the most Eddie will ever really understand is two plus two. That’s it.

And yet somehow, Eddie speaks two languages.

To this day, that completely blows my mind.

Just recently, my cousin Veronica called from Brazil on Mother’s Day. She does not speak English. Eddie understood every word she said and carried on a conversation with her in Portuguese as naturally as anything.

How is that even possible?

There is something about Eddie that reminds me there are forms of intelligence and understanding that cannot always be measured by the standards the world uses.

Then came the iPhone.

God help us all.

The calls became regular. And I mean REGULAR.

Because of my work schedule, we eventually settled into a routine where Eddie says, “I call you tomorrow at 7:30.”

And no matter what, he does.

Recently, he added something new because he knows I like to sleep in on Saturdays.

Now he says, “I call you Saturday afternoon.”

And like clockwork, he does.

In the busyness of life, I will admit something that is hard to say out loud.

Sometimes during my calls with Eddie, I do not have the time—or honestly, even the patience—to sit through what I call “the loop.”

He starts with:
“Where are you?”
(which really means, Why didn’t you answer the phone?)

Then comes the CD discussion.

Then football, despite it being six months away.

Then:
“Where’s Lee?”

And sprinkled throughout it all is repetition. Stories I have heard before. Questions I already answered. Thoughts that circle back around again.

And then, when I am trying to end the call, Eddie says:

“One more thing.”

Every single time.

And that is where I pause.

That is where I wipe away my impatience.

Because deep down, I know something I do not ever want to forget:

One day, I know I will give anything to hear Eddie say “one more thing.”

So I stay.

I listen.

I make time for one more thing because, in that moment, it matters more than whatever other “one more thing” I think I need to do.

Reflection

I wanted to write this while Eddie is still here.

Not someday after loss.

Not after a funeral.

Not after grief settles in and memory becomes all that is left.

Now.

While he is still calling at 7:30.
While he is still asking where Lee is.
While he is still reminding us he has one more thing to say.

There is something sacred about people who love this consistently.

Eddie has never learned how to love halfway.

He does not curate himself.
He does not pretend.
He does not perform.
He does not worry about whether he has already told you the same story.

He just loves people.

Over and over and over again.

And maybe that is part of his gift.

We tend to define intelligence so narrowly in this world.

Grades.
Achievement.
Productivity.
Titles.
Performance.

And yet I have watched Eddie remember birthdays most people forget. I have watched him recognize voices instantly. I have watched him speak two languages despite barely understanding simple math.

I have also watched him love people with a consistency that many highly educated people never achieve.

And maybe that is its own kind of wisdom.

The truth is, Eddie will never read this blog.

He will never fully understand the words I have written about him here.

If I tried to read it to him, he would probably listen carefully for a few minutes before darting off into three completely unrelated topics, the way a dog suddenly spots a squirrel and instantly shifts its attention.

But deep down, I know he knows.

I know he knows he is loved.

I know he knows he belongs to all of us.

And I know that for my entire life, Eddie has quietly held parts of our family together in ways none of us fully understood while we were living them.

Maybe that is what love actually looks like.

Not grand gestures.

Not perfection.

Not sophistication.

Just showing up.
Calling again.
Remembering birthdays.

Trying to climb the down escalator because someone you love is crying.

Question

Who in your life has loved you so faithfully and consistently that you cannot imagine the world without them?

And have you told them…while they are still here to hear it?

Until next Saturday, choose presence.