My wife Maya
Maya and I met in high school. She was always nice to me, but after my freshman year, when I left to go to a Las Vegas high school because of my father’s wheeling and dealing, I didn’t see her again until after we both graduated.
We got married at a young age, too young, and had children. We were in over our heads. We cared for each other, but, for me, it wasn’t that everlasting love.
In 90’s, after my brother Albert was killed, my priorities changed. After someone you deeply love dies, your life changes. You want to spend time with the people you really love, because you just don’t know how long they will be around or how long you will.
I wanted to spend more time with our children. Maya wanted to maintain our lifestyle.
I was working long hours at American and missed a lot of my daughter’s dance recitals and my son’s t-ball games. I just wanted to be a DAD, so I asked Maya to get a part time job, so I could cut back, and, with my seniority, we could make it and keep the kids in private school.
Maya’s answer was, “I didn’t come to Miami to work!”
I was shocked and hurt. I had just lost the most important person in my world, and she wouldn’t give me the space or time to grieve.
That’s when world war 3 started. It left me broke and broken, apart from my children…and led me to crime.
Excerpted from the forthcoming memoir, The Baggage Handler.