Written by Christina Ely Milliman, in memory of Florence Sarah Pelletier Ely and Leonard Roscoe Ely

Published on Facebook, October 14, 2025

Brian and my mother had a special bond. From the beginning, they were fond of one another. They are very similar in many ways in terms of their personality. They are both summer babies. Her birthday was July 28^th (a Leo), his August 28^th. (a Virgo).  Although they are not the same astrological sign, the three of us once discussed the possibility that if one was born late and the other early, they would align with the same astrological sign and thus share similar personality traits. We wondered what my mother’s due date was. Was she born early, on time, or late? She did not know, and my grandmother passed many years ago. What we do know is that my mother was certainly not a Leo, which is what prompted this conversation.

Brian would do anything for my mother, recognizing the tremendous physical pain she endured daily, knowing the heartache she suffered after my father’s passing, the continued medical problems that arose, the hospitalizations, and her general daily plight. She loved it when he would cook for her, and he was always quick to ask her, first and foremost, what she wanted for family dinners and special meals, so he could know what she would enjoy. For the last several years, we spent every holiday with her. Never wanting her to be alone on any of the major holidays. It was very important to him that we made this happen.

He gave me space to be with my mother these last three years, and he provided it selflessly. To go to her house once a week, to spend time with her. He gave me the freedom and support to spend the equivalent of about five to six months of my time over the last three years with her. Time that I will never regret. The time when I was able to not only help her with daily tasks, errands, and appointments, but also get to know my mother better, hearing stories and reminiscing. To get to know HER. That time, it cannot be taken away from me. I will never feel guilty. It was a gift that he gave to both of us—a pure, selfless gift and act of kindness.

The days after her death, leading up to her funeral services, were spent in Hebron with my sister, Aunt, and cousins. It was hard not to be with him, and I know it was hard for him not to be there too. He loved my mother. It broke my heart at her burial to look at him and see his eyes well up with tears, to see his heart break, to see those tears roll down his face one slow tear at a time. They had a bond; he cared for her. Whatever brought her comfort, connected her to the outside world, gave her peace, or occupied her mind, he supported it fully and unconditionally. I may never fully understand what she meant to him. That is in his heart and in hers. But I know that I am indebted to him for giving me the grace to be with her, to support her, and to bring her little bits of happiness and joy in her final years.