November 23, 4:15 p.m. The last day of life as I knew it. The day started out so beautifully: We spent the afternoon cleaning his room and talking about an essay he had to turn in. He was a student at Youth Build. Jamer did extremely well in that program. I was so proud because Jamer became a father at 15, and we were raising the baby together.
Anyway, I went downstairs. Mer came behind me, begging me to run to the store, knowing he was going to be gone for hours. I said no, but I gave in (the worst mistake I ever made). Before I could sit on my bed, the gut-wrenching gunshot rang out. I looked out the window and saw my son crawling for his life. He got shot so many times. I can feel each one as I ran to him. Sixteen times. I got to him and held him; he raised his arm and he was gone forever. He was at the wrong place at the wrong time taking bullets not meant for him.
Jamer was the baby boy, a brother, a grandson, nephew, cousin and friend. My son. And he wasn’t coming back.