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New York, NY, United States 🇺🇸

Tré M R

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Bio

A storyteller with two decades of ghostwriting, PR, and branding experience, Tré is a UC Berkeley graduate and the author of “Splitting the Difference: A Heart-Shaped Memoir,” which shares her experience of being suddenly widowed at 34 and reuniting with the teenage daughter she placed for adoption. Her bylined essays have appeared in The New York Times, Marie Claire, Red magazine, ModernLoss.com, and more. Among the topics she explores with zeal are grief, adoption, fashion, neurodiversity, and travel. Tré has visited nearly 30 countries and makes her home in Brooklyn.

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As a Story Terrace writer, Tré M R interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know our writer better by reading the autobiographical anecdote below!

In the past, when anyone asked if I was married or had children, my answers were easy: “Yes” to the first and “no” to the second, because my husband was alive and the new born I had placed in an open adoption when I was a teenager hadn’t yet found me on Facebook.

Before the answers became complicated, my husband, Alberto, and I had spent the weekend in Connecticut celebrating my 34th birthday. The advertising agency he had founded with his best friend was weathering the recession, and I was climbing the ranks at a Manhattan public relations firm.

There were no overt signs that Alberto’s 40-year-old heart was about to give out, but one terrifying Sunday in March 2009, I awoke and he did not.

The year that followed came with a different set of questions, often from well-meaning friends: “Do you regret not freezing his sperm?” and “Don’t you wish you had children with him?”

Alberto and I had discussed the possibility of children on our second date. Maybe someday, we agreed, but no rush. So during our three years of marriage, we had placed a premium on spontaneity, passport stamps and sleep.

There were moments in the first heavy months of widowhood when I wished Alberto’s laughter or balloon-shaped toes were living on in a toddler. Yet I was also relieved that I didn’t have to sublimate my grief for motherhood. And grieve I did: on Twitter, on Facebook, on Tumblr.

What began as catharsis evolved into a public narrative, and among the strangers following my story was a teenage girl in North Carolina. In the summer of 2011, she exchanged her anonymity for a friend request.

Because her Facebook name didn’t match the one on her birth certificate, I failed to make the connection. I didn’t realize the historic shift my life was about to take until the next morning, when I noticed a Facebook chat window on my desktop. It was initiated at 1:10 a.m. and contained one elongated word from someone named Laurie: “Heyyyy.”

Hey back, I thought. Who are you, again?

When I clicked on the chat, her profile page loaded and I recognized her father’s dark Filipino eyes and my family’s Irish bone structure. My biological daughter had just friended me on Facebook.

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