Family

 The grand cathedral of a life well-lived is built not with occasional, monumental slabs, but with the humble, daily bricks of effort, kindness, and presence.

Demarcus and Latoya’s cathedral was a vibrant, noisy, beautiful structure, its foundations laid in a southern Trinidad secondary school twenty-three years ago. They had been children having children, their lives accelerating from first loves to first jobs to first-time parents in a dizzying blink. With the arrival of their first son, Kofi, and a year later, their daughter, Sade, their dreams of university were swapped for night classes and shift work, their youth poured into the hungry, wonderful mouths of their babies.

They had consciously slowed down. While their peers were building careers, they were building a fortress of family. Demarcus’s promotion at the automotive shop could wait; teaching Kofi to ride a bike without training wheels could not. Latoya’s ambition to start her own catering business was shelved for the nightly ritual of reading to Sade, her voice weaving tales under the glow of a fairy-light-lit bunkbed.

Their family was their career. And in the tight-knit weave of their days, they mastered the art of celebrating the little things. A perfect score on a spelling test was met with a spontaneous after-school bake-and-lime with doubles. Demarcus fixing the stubborn kitchen sink called for a chorus of "Daddy is the king!" from the children. They celebrated the pay-cheque, yes, but they celebrated the budget that stretched to cover new school shoes with equal fervor.

Then, in their mid-thirties, a surprise. Not one, but two. First came Eli, a boy with a gummy grin, and fourteen months later, the whirlwind that was Zion. The house, which had just grown quiet, was once again filled with the symphony of baby cries and toddler giggles. But this time, it was different. They were older, more established, and their first two children, Kofi and Sade, were not just siblings but eager, capable lieutenants in the family enterprise.

Now, nearing forty, their life was a masterclass in honoring the climb. The "big thing" was Kofi’s upcoming CAPE exams and Sade’s dream of studying fashion design. But the celebrations that filled their home were for the steps along the way.

Last Tuesday, Demarcus came home to find Latoya beaming, not over a catering contract, but over a pot of pelau. "Taste it," she insisted. He did. It was perfect, the peas soft, the meat tender, the rice infused with coconut and warmth. "Is the first time I got it right since Mummy passed," she whispered, her eyes glistening. That night, they didn't just eat dinner; they celebrated it. Demarcus told the story of Latoya’s mother, a legendary cook, and how her daughter had finally captured her magic in a pot. It was a brick laid in memory, in legacy.

The celebration was for Kofi, not for his exam results, but for the discipline of staying late after school for extra lessons. Latoya would pack him a special container of curry channa and roti, a small, tangible recognition of his effort. The joy was in the trying.

It was for Sade, who, after a frustrating day where a dress design wouldn't come together, suddenly sketched something beautiful at 10 PM. The whole family, summoned by her triumphant shout, crowded into her room to admire the lines and curves, Demarcus declaring it "pure genius" and four-year-old Eli clapping because everyone else was. They were celebrating the breakthrough, not the finished garment.

It was for Demarcus himself, who came home one evening, his shoulders slumped after a difficult day dealing with a frustrated client and a costly mistake in the shop. Instead of focusing on the loss, Latoya gathered the children. "Let's cheer up Daddy." They presented him with a "King of Patience" crown made of construction paper and glitter, and little Zion, with solemn seriousness, offered him his favourite sippy cup. The failure of the day was overshadowed by the victory of his family's love.

Their life was not a straight line to a summit. It was a rich, textured landscape, dotted with small, joyful monuments. The clean kitchen after a chaotic day. The sound of all four children laughing together in the bath. The quiet moment after the little ones were asleep, when Demarcus and Latoya would sit on the porch with a cup of cocoa, their hands linked, not needing to say a word, simply honoring another day built together.

They had built their cathedral not with marble and spire, but with pelau and paper crowns, with late-night sketches and early morning patience. They were the architects of their own contentment, laying each humble, daily brick with care, and then, taking a moment to celebrate it. Everything that mattered had been built from there.