On November 19th, I was sitting at my desk in my office trying to wrap up some end-of-the-day work, when I got a call on WhatsApp from a name I didn’t recognize. “Spam,” I immediately thought, so I didn’t answer. Three minutes later I received a text message from the same number, and it said, “Please call me. Sylvia White gave me your number. My name is [redacted] a friend of Sylvia’s here in San Miguel.” Clearly this person was not a scammer, as I know Sylvia very well, unless they were one of the many sophisticated scammers that pull a lot of public information before reaching out to their target. But… Syliva had me listed all over the place as her first contact in case of emergency. That thought made my stomach flip… was everything okay with her? We had just spoken two days prior, and she was in a fantastic mood after her second art gallery showing.

I took a deep breath and called the person back.

The next 30 minutes were surreal. Not only was this person not a scammer, but they did in fact get my number from Sylvia. The night prior, she wasn’t feeling well, so she gave a house key and my number to this friend of hers and said, “if anything ever happens to me, call Matt Singley first. He will know what to do.” I wasn’t emotionally prepared for this call, however. He was reaching out to let me know that Sylvia had died quite unexpectedly, and he didn’t know what to do next. He discovered her in her house, appearing to be sleeping quite comfortably, but she had passed away earlier in the day. I was devasted.

I met Sylvia almost exactly four years ago. My partner and I were looking for a new house in the area, and we just happened to be the last showing of a day of showings that had people in and out of her house on the lake every 15 minutes. Going into the showing, we knew there wasn’t much of a chance of us getting the house. Living in Los Angeles, there is a lot of wealth and power all around, and so we, a humble couple looking for a (perhaps) short-term rental, had a snowball’s chance in hell of being selected. We fell in love with the property the moment we stepped foot on it. We met the Realtor, a lovely woman who we still keep up with, and went on with our day. After leaving, we talked about how perfect this tiny, old fishing cabin on the lake was, and also reminded each other that it was very unlikely we would ever hear from the Realtor again. To our surprise, she called us a few days later and said, “The owner, Sylvia, would like to meet you. Please write a letter about your family and bring it with you.”

We wrote the letter, we met with Sylvia and planned to just drop it off and chat briefly, then leave. To our surprise, she read our letter, spoke with us for a while, then the Realtor pulled out the rental papers. What was happening? Neither Sylvia nor the Realtor said “welcome to the house” or “it’s yours” or anything like that. They simply gave us the lease to sign and asked for a deposit check. Years later, I laugh about this moment as I write it… this was the most Sylvia way to start a relationship with her! She was an amazing business woman, and had to take care of herself and those around her since she was young. She had no time for your bullshit, no time for fluff. Let’s get this deal done and move on to the next one! It’s one of the many aspects of Sylvia that we grew to love over time.

If you put 100 people in a room that knew Sylvia and asked them how they got along with her, 90 of them would say, “not great” (that’s a nice way of putting it) 8 would say, “just fine” and 2 would tell you magnificent stories about this thing she did or said, and how they laughed and cried together. I’m very happy and proud to consider myself in that group of 2. I won’t go on about why the 90 didn’t get along with her, because it doesn’t matter. My partner and I are part of the 2%, as are a small handful of others that I have come to know so well. If Sylvia trusted you enough (and time was certainly a factor, not just actions) she would start to share little parts of her life with you. If she trusted you a lot, she would reveal things about her family that helped form her into the amazing woman she had become, for better and for worse.

I had a lot of very deep conversations with Sylvia, conversations about things I know that she didn’t share with anybody else. Not her husband, not her daughter, not her decades-long friends. Of course, I’m sure she shared things with them that I had no idea about, but it felt very special when, after a vodka and soda (or three), sitting on the deck of the lake house looking out over the water, I would share something deeply personal with her about my life, and she would pause, take a sip and let it soak in. Then she would say, “You know, Matt…” and then tell me something I know she kept hidden, buried deep. We cried together a lot, and we also laughed together so many times. She had a cackle/snort/laugh that would come out when something struck her as particularly funny. We shared such great times together.

Over those years, we talked a lot about the house that brought us together. “You and Crissy are perfect for this house, and this house is perfect for you,” she said a lot. Over time, our talks about this magical place changed from ethereal to practical, and we agreed that some day, when she decided the time was right, we would buy the house from her and her husband, John. She would then get very serious and remind me, “but you know, that cannot happen until one of us dies… the capital gains would be ridiculous otherwise, plus…” and then she would go on and on about how she would get screwed in taxes, club dues, commissions, etc. unless the time was just right. The thing is, we both knew that her husband would die before her, as he is much older and not in great health. Obviously, right? She was the epitome of youthful energy, too full of piss and vinegar, and entirely too stubborn, to die before John. Yet, here we are. (Sidenote: I have grown to love John, I just didn’t know him as well leading up to Sylvia’s death, but this post is about Sylvia, not John).

Our relationship with Sylvia was amazing and complex. Over the last year, despite her moving to Mexico to live full-time and open a new art gallery, she would occasionally return to the states to visit, and when she did, she rented a room from us. How funny is that? Our landlord was also our tenant. I told you, Sylvia was complex, but her complexity was something we learned to appreciate and love, along with the rest of her. In so many ways, Sylvia was more than a friend, a business associate, a landlord or a tenant, she was…

…family. Chosen family. Sometimes in life you meet people that you aren’t blood related to, but you are drawn to. This was the case with Sylvia. I remember when we talked about this for the first time; I was helping her navigate a very complex family matter, and she asked me, point blank, “why are you doing this? Why are you helping me? If I had to hire an attorney to do this it would cost me $10,000! Why? Also, I’m not going to pay you anything for this, but why are you doing it?” I still literally laugh out loud when I think of that last part about not paying, because it was so on-brand for her. But my response was, “because, Sylvia, you are family. You are *chosen* family, and I love you. Crissy loves you. We take care of our family.” If I recall correctly, that night we met on the deck over a vodka and soda and shared wonderful tales, both feeling much closer than we had even the previous day.

Family that you choose… family that you GET to choose, is amazing. I chose Sylvia, and now I miss her and mourn her just as I would family that shares blood with me.