🎨 Chosen Family
Dedication: Cosgrove Family
Story: Mr. Cosgrove
The first time I saw Mr. Cosgrove’s red VW Bus parked outside the State Farm office, I thought it looked like something out of a parade—bold, bright, and full of purpose. My mother worked inside that brick building as a secretary, but it was Mr. Cosgrove who made it feel like more than just a job. He made it feel like family.
He wasn’t my father. But he showed up like one.
Mr. Cosgrove had a way of seeing people—not just noticing them, but really seeing them. He corrected our grammar with kindness, never making David or me feel small for not knowing better. He kept every school photo we gave Mom, proudly displayed on his desk for clients to see. It was the first time I felt like someone outside our family thought we were worth showing off.
One summer, he invited us to join his family camping trip at Many Islands. His four sons—older, cooler, and all musicians—welcomed us like cousins. We fished for bass with cans of corn in freezing water, went snipe hunting, and laughed until our sides hurt when Jim ate dog food on a dare. Around the campfire, under a sky full of stars, they told ghost stories about a librarian who screamed so hard her hair turned gray. And somehow, in that flickering firelight, even fear felt like belonging.
When his wife Carol couldn’t attend the opera, Mr. Cosgrove asked me to go with him. I was eleven. I chose my long purple velvet dress with cream lace around the collar and sleeves, wanting to be worthy of the moment. We crossed the Memphis bridge in his candy apple red Cadillac El Dorado, listening to Charlie Rich on the radio—his wife’s uncle from Colt, Arkansas. He told me stories about Charlie, asked me what I thought about music and meaning, and listened like my opinion mattered.
That night felt like the father-daughter evening I’d always dreamed of—being seen, being chosen, being worth the effort.
His office was filled with aquariums, fish that kissed the glass when you leaned in close. It was magical, like everything about him. He made ordinary moments feel sacred. And when I met Joe years later, standing there in his black turtleneck, something in me whispered, *That’s the kind of man Mr. Cosgrove was.*
That memory alone made me want to stay.
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