By Monique Norington Joseph
Last week, I learned about the passing of my cousin, Frances Byrd.
Even writing those words feels strange.
Because although we didn’t grow up together, it never felt like we were meeting for the first time.
It felt like coming home.
In 2018, after years of researching my family history, I received a message from a another cousin named Warin.
He had found me through our shared genealogy and wanted me to know that our family was gathering for a reunion in Harlan County, Kentucky.
It would be my first opportunity to meet the descendants of my second great-grandmother, Eliza Whittaker.
I was excited.
And if I’m honest…
I was terrified.
What if they didn’t accept me?
What if I didn’t belong?
What if I had spent years searching for family only to discover I was still an outsider?
So before I booked my flight, I reached out to one person.
Frances.
She welcomed me before we had ever met.
She answered my questions.
She laughed with me.
She made me feel like there was already a place waiting for me.
Years later, we would joke that she was the family’s little “spy.”
I teased her that she was reporting back to everyone else before I arrived.
“Tell me the truth,” I’d say. “You’re checking me out for the family, aren’t you?”
She would laugh.
That was Frances.
She had a way of making you feel comfortable.
She had a warmth that erased years of separation.
When the day finally came, I flew into Nashville.
Frances picked me up at the airport.
Then we began the drive to Harlan, Kentucky.
Looking back now, I realize that drive changed my life forever.
Somewhere between Nashville and the winding roads of eastern Kentucky, I stopped feeling like a researcher.
I became family.
We talked for hours.
About people.
About places.
About stories.
About names I had spent years reading on paper but had never heard spoken aloud.
The mountains grew taller as we drove.
And with every mile, I felt like I was getting closer—not just to Harlan County—but to myself.
By the time we arrived, I wasn’t walking into a reunion full of strangers.
I was walking into family.
That weekend changed everything.
It gave faces to names.
Laughter to old photographs.
Voices to census records.
It transformed genealogy from research into relationship.
And Frances was the first person to hand me that gift.
Last week, that beautiful soul left this world.
But what she gave me will remain for the rest of my life.
She reminded me that family isn’t only discovered through DNA.
Sometimes it’s discovered through kindness.
Through a welcoming smile.
Through someone who opens a door and says, “Come on in. You belong here.”
As I’ve reflected on losing Frances, I’ve realized something important.
We spend so much time searching for our ancestors that we sometimes forget to cherish the relatives who are still here.
Our grandparents.
Our great-aunts.
Our uncles.
Our older cousins.
They are living history.
They know the stories no record ever captured.
They remember the nicknames, the family jokes, the recipes, the heartbreaks, and the triumphs.
And one day…
Those stories leave with them.
If reading this stirs something in you, don’t ignore it.
Call your grandmother.
Visit your great-aunt.
Ask your uncle about his childhood.
Reach out to the cousin you’ve always meant to know better.
Don’t wait.
Because one conversation can change your life.
Mine did.
It began with an email from Warin.
It became a phone call with Frances.
It led to a flight into Nashville.
A drive through the Appalachian Mountains.
And a family reunion that forever changed the course of my life.
As I prepare to release This Well Runs Deep, Frances will have her own place within its pages.
Because she wasn’t simply part of my family tree.
She became part of my journey.
Frances, thank you for opening the door.
Thank you for making a stranger feel like family.
Thank you for reminding me that home isn’t always a place.
Sometimes…
Home is a person.
Rest well, cousin.
I’ll keep telling our story.
