No Les. No more.
Leslie. No LES, no more. (An inside joke from Tombstone. We keep the meaning between us—it’s better that way.)
We met in 1995—me, newly arrived in California, accent thick and hopes high, and her, one of my very first neighbors. That first connection turned into a bond that would hold steady through three decades of joy, loss, reinvention, and the absolute madness of real life.
She was there when I found out my first husband was having an affair. She’s the one who gently, bravely told me that the little red Prelude—the one I knew belonged to his assistant—was parked in my garage. I was still in Australia at the time, grieving the death of my grandmother, and while I was mourning oceans away, Leslie was holding space for me back home. When I returned, shattered and unsure, she let me fall apart. She offered no platitudes—just chocolate, calm, and unconditional care.
She was there when I met my second husband. When I started to rebuild. When I began to believe in life again. She showed up right after the births of both of my children—not in the delivery room (she has firm boundaries about slippery newborns, and honestly, good for her)—but soon enough to matter deeply.
As my children grew into toddlers, she stayed close in the ways that count. She wasn’t physically there during my second separation or the devastating loss of my husband to suicide, but emotionally? She was right there, holding me up with her words, her steady check-ins, her unwavering love.
Her son was a little older than mine, so when she went through her divorce and later the loss of her ex-husband, I got to be the one holding her. We’ve taken turns holding each other in life’s hardest seasons.
Our kids didn’t grow up together—hers in Arizona, mine in the middle of the city—but somehow, we still raised them in tandem. Hers was the rebel with the wild spark who grew into a crazy-cool, sharp-witted accountant with a brilliantly nerdy side that I absolutely adore. The kind of intelligence that makes you laugh and feel a little dumb in the best way.
And mine? My daughter bloomed into a whimsical, radiant hippie who, at 23, is not only an incredible chef but also a light in every room she enters. And my son—he became a military officer. Strong, brave, steady. A man I am so proud of it makes my heart ache in the best way.
We’ve survived the teenage years—not with minivans and soccer practice, but with late-night phone calls, deep sighs, and enough shared stories to fill a book of “Did yours ever…?” We stood by each other through all of it—every crisis, every celebration, every “I have no idea what I’m doing” moment.
Now we’re navigating the strange, quiet chapter of having raised adults. The part where the house is still and your identity shifts yet again. And still—there we are, steady in each other’s lives.
We’re a tiny, beautiful, patchworked family. My children are hers, and hers is mine. Not by blood, but by something stronger: time, trust, and a fierce kind of love.
Leslie is my sister in every way that counts. My anchor, my mirror, my person. The one who has always known when to bring chocolate, when to say nothing, and when to remind me who I am.
And yes—there’s a phrase we say that started in Tombstone: no LES, no more. We don’t over-explain it. We just smile and say it when we need reminding that we’re exactly who and where we’re meant to be.
Leslie, thank you. For every truth, every laugh, every moment of grace. You are stitched into the fabric of my life, and I’m better because of it. No LES, no more.