Her name was Aneliz.
She raised six children alone. Through faith, through business, through the smell of coffee on the fire every morning before the sun came up.
Every cup of ANELIZ coffee begins in Thiotte, Haiti — high in the mountains, in regions with names as beautiful as the land itself: Gros Cheval, Mare Blanche, and the Blue Pine Forest.
This is Arabica Typica coffee. It is heirloom coffee, the kind of varietal that has been growing on Haitian soil for generations. It is grown by small farmers who know every tree on their land. Who pick each cherry by hand, at the exact moment it turns from green to red. Who process their harvest with the same care their parents did, and their parents before them.
A promise made in silence.
The apartment was too quiet. His father had left. I was alone, and I was afraid, and I was carrying a son who did not yet know the world he was about to be born into.
I remember sitting on the floor sometimes. Not because I was crying, though I did that too. But because sitting on the floor was the only way I could feel small enough for what I was feeling. When you are pregnant and alone and terrified, the world becomes very large very quickly. Standing feels like too much.
During those long nights, I made him promises he could not yet hear. I promised him a good education. I promised him a dignified life. I promised him love. I promised him safety. And I promised him a mother who would never — not once, not for any reason, not in any storm — give up.
I did not know how I would keep those promises. I only knew that I had made them, and that promises, in my family, are not things you break.
When he was born, that promise stopped being a whisper. It became my mission. I could no longer only dream. I had to build.
And so I began to build. Slowly. Quietly. With whatever I had. Which, for a long time, was not very much.
A promise made in silence.
The apartment was too quiet. His father had left. I was alone, and I was afraid, and I was carrying a son who did not yet know the world he was about to be born into.
I remember sitting on the floor sometimes. Not because I was crying, though I did that too. But because sitting on the floor was the only way I could feel small enough for what I was feeling. When you are pregnant and alone and terrified, the world becomes very large very quickly. Standing feels like too much.
During those long nights, I made him promises he could not yet hear. I promised him a good education. I promised him a dignified life. I promised him love. I promised him safety. And I promised him a mother who would never — not once, not for any reason, not in any storm — give up.
I did not know how I would keep those promises. I only knew that I had made them, and that promises, in my family, are not things you break.
When he was born, that promise stopped being a whisper. It became my mission. I could no longer only dream. I had to build.
And so I began to build. Slowly. Quietly. With whatever I had. Which, for a long time, was not very much.