Why I Wrote This Book This is my story. But I tell it through Samuel: he is me, and he is not. He carries my wounds so you can see your own. Because sometimes it is easier to face pain once it has a name that is not yours or mine. Perhaps this is also your story, or the story of someone you love. Perhaps you carry sadness or hopelessness. Perhaps something within you has quieted, slowed, or dimmed like a vibration held at too low a frequency to feel fully alive. I believe healing carries its own vibration. And sometimes we must learn to tune ourselves toward it. I Will See You on Sunday was born from necessity. The kind that rises when silence becomes too heavy and stories too sacred to remain untold. This book holds the weight of abandonment, addiction, migration, and resilience, not as headlines, but as heart lines drawn from my lived experience and the lives of those I love. This is not a traditional memoir. It is also not a self help manual. It lives in the space between, where truth wears the skin of story and fiction speaks what memory sometimes cannot. Through symbolic characters and emotional honesty, I have crafted a narrative that protects sacred details while offering a clear invitation to healing. Some may find this book wide in scope, crossing between memory and policy, personal loss and national pain, faith and politics. But that breadth reflects my life. I do not live in tidy chapters. My story, like many, defies categorization. I ask you, dear reader, to stay with me not because every part will mirror your own, but because the human spirit deserves to be witnessed in full. The DNA of a generation is defined by its inheritance, by what is passed down from one generation to the next. In some family trees, that inheritance is wealth, land, tradition, success, legacy, and language. In others, the transaction is forged through rejection, addiction, fear, or silence. Not gifts, but debts. Not blessings, but burdens. Emotional overdrafts written into the marrow. But this story is not only mine. In telling it, I found echoes of other lives of people carrying burdens they did not choose, walking roads paved long before they arrived. Perhaps you will recognize something familiar in these pages. Perhaps your story, too, was shaped by silence or detoured by sorrow. To the migrant, documented or not, this book is for you. To the moms and dads, sons, husbands, wives, friends, and neighbors. To those who embrace migrants and to those who remember we were all once strangers. Your arrival is not the end of the story. It is the beginning of healing and the first chapter in a new legacy. Each migrant is a Sunday. Each migrant is a vibrating story. And every story, in some way, belongs to us all. Remember: a glass has been shattered. And in every shard, there is truth. There is pain. But also, the possibility of healing. This book is not just a look back; it is a mirror held up to the now. The stories of Samuel and Yesi are not sealed in the past. Their echoes can be heard in today's rhetoric, detention centers, and national wounds. You may not see it coming, but you will feel the connection. "The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt. I am the Lord your God." Leviticus 19:34