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My Mother Died When I Was 7. I’m Grieving 37 Years Later. Delayed grief is sometimes triggered by an event later in life, experts say. By Nicole Johnson I’m in my basement looking for a file when I stumble upon the cards and pictures — a small manila envelope containing what is left of my mother. She died at 30 in an apartment in Van Nuys, Calif., in April 1983. I don’t even know the exact date. My brother and I were told that her biker boyfriend, a guy named Eddie, found her dead in the shower. I was 7. I lived with my grandparents, my state-appointed guardians in my mother’s absence, in a city 15 minutes outside of Boston. After school and on many weekends, I was also cared for by my foster mother, Esther. The state paid for her to help my grandparents. It was also the state that had removed my brother and me from the apartment we shared with my mother, Denise, just before my first birthday. Denise was an addict.

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