Marie Louise

Espinosa Gallivan

MARIE LOUISEESPINOSA GALLIVAN

July 13, 1935 – November 8, 2026

THE WOMAN WHO WOULDN'T GIVE UP

The life and story of a remarkable, complicated, resilient woman

Some lives are not easy to summarize. Some people leave behind stories filled with extraordinary strength, complicated relationships, heartache, sacrifice, and moments of beauty. My mother, Marie Louise Espinosa Gallivan, was one of those people.

She was born on July 13, 1935, on the beautiful Caribbean island of St. Croix, to Margaret Pedersen and Pedro Espinosa. Marie was the second eldest of seven children. Her siblings, in order of birth, were Margarita Valls Nobel, the eldest (who is not pictured); Marie; Constance Espinosa Roberts, the third eldest; Mercedes Espinosa Arlin, the fourth oldest; Juanita Espinosa; Violet Espinosa Roebuck; and Pedro Espinosa, the youngest. All of her siblings have since passed away.

Marie, the second eldest, seated with her siblings on St. Croix. Her eldest sister, Margarita, is not pictured.

The Family She Leaves Behind

Marie’s family extended across generations and across the Espinosa, Golden, and Pedersen families of St. Croix and Puerto Rico. She is remembered by her children, grandchildren, extended family, and numerous friends.

Her five children, in order of birth:

Debra Espinosa (deceased)Monica Couch (spouse: James Mitchell)Jessica GallivanCory Gallivan (spouse: Andhini)David Cover (spouse: Richelle)

Her grandchildren, in order of birth:

Madison Carter (spouse: Clinton)Kari Currence, Esq.Ariana GallivanKarina Gallivan

The wider family also includes Mary Calderon, wife of Marie’s youngest brother, Pedro Espinosa, who is still living; Rosa Espinosa, an honorary half-sister whose last known residence is Puerto Rico; and Carlotta Moorehead (spouse: Robert), who was married to Pedro. Carlotta’s daughter, Nikki, is one of Marie’s nieces. They remain part of the family story, along with the many other relatives and friends whose names and memories are woven into Marie’s life.

Perhaps those early years shaped the woman she would become. She knew hardship long before she knew security. She learned to survive, and surviving would become a recurring theme throughout her life.

My mother raised five children, largely on her own and without the support she deserved. She worked, provided, and did what she could to give her children opportunities she hadn't necessarily had herself. One thing she was determined about was education. She struggled financially but made sacrifices to send us to private school because she wanted us to have a better start in life.

That was my mother. Imperfect, complicated, sometimes difficult, but determined in ways that were easy to overlook.

Her life was not without its struggles. She experienced domestic abuse, relationships with men who mistreated or abandoned her, and periods when alcohol became a problem. She eventually overcame alcoholism, another chapter in a life that seemed to demand that she find the strength to begin again.

She endured more physical hardships than most people experience in a lifetime. She underwent open-heart surgery, broke her arm and hip, suffered from scoliosis and heart problems, and was struck by a car, leaving her with lasting damage to her leg. Yet she kept going. She held jobs, raised her children, and somehow managed to put one foot in front of the other.

My brother Cory once described her as his hero because of her resilience. I understand what he meant. There was something almost unbelievable about her ability to survive.

We didn't always have an easy relationship. My mother could be difficult, and there were painful parts of our childhood that cannot simply be erased by her passing. I believe the weight of her own life, the hardships she experienced, and the burden of raising five children alone contributed to some of the unhappiness she carried. But understanding someone's struggles doesn't mean pretending the hurt never happened.

I have made peace with much of our past. I forgive her.

And I can acknowledge that a woman can be both someone who caused pain and someone who endured tremendous pain herself. Both things can be true.

A Character All Her Own

But there was another side of my mother that deserves to be remembered.

She was a character. A true original.

She had an unmistakable sense of style and a personality to match. She was a fashionista long before anyone needed social media to tell them what was fashionable. Her wardrobe was eclectic, her jewelry was fabulous, and she never seemed afraid to make a statement.

She loved shopping, especially finding a bargain. Bealls Outlet and Ross were among her favorite places to hunt for treasures. She could find something special where someone else might see nothing at all. I always imagined that one day I would be able to buy her a beautiful home, surround her with lovely things, and give her some of the luxuries she had gone without growing up.

Madison, my daughter and Marie’s granddaughter, remembers sitting with her watching the Food Network, discussing recipes, and laughing at chefs whose fingernails weren't quite suitable for the kitchen!

She remembers playing dress-up with her grandmother's jewelry, admiring her outfits, and going on shopping trips together. Those seemingly ordinary moments became extraordinary memories.

Faith, Family, and the Final Chapter

In her later years, my mother found her way back to her Catholic faith. She began attending Sunday Mass, and when dementia first made it difficult for her to attend, arrangements were made for communion to be brought to her home. Her faith became an important part of her life again.

She was eventually diagnosed with dementia, a cruel disease that slowly took away so much of the woman we knew. It took her memories, her independence, her abilities, and eventually the things that had once brought her so much joy.

Watching someone you love disappear little by little is a particular kind of heartbreak. The woman who once loved cooking, shopping, dressing beautifully, and being independent became increasingly dependent on others.

My sister Jessica and my brother David were there to see her in those final days. My sister Debbie had preceded her in death ten years earlier. The family she leaves behind carries different memories, different experiences, and different pieces of her story.

On November 8, 2026, at 2:45 in the afternoon, my mother took her final breath. My husband, Mitchell, and I were with her.

As she was nearing the end, I wanted her to know she wasn't alone. I placed her rosary beside her and prayed aloud. I said the Our Father and Hail Mary, read Catholic prayers, and spoke to her about Jesus, Mary, the angels, and the saints. I reminded her that she would soon be reunited with her beloved mother and father and the brothers and sisters she had outlived.

When she was distressed, I encouraged her to focus on Jesus and Mary. I wanted her to hear familiar prayers and know that she was surrounded by love.

I don't know exactly what she heard or understood in those final moments. But I hope some part of her found comfort in those words.

And then, after a lifetime of surviving, she was finally at peace.

The Sunrise

The morning after her passing, I woke up with an emptiness that is difficult to describe.

I drove to Amelia Island to watch the sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean. I listened to Stevie Nicks, just as I had done when my grandmother passed away. Somehow, the music, the open road, and the rising sun have become my way of saying goodbye.

The sky was painted in brilliant shades of orange and red. The sun slowly emerged over the water, and for a while, I simply watched.

There were no conversations to have, no decisions to make, no medical updates to wait for. Just the ocean, the music, the sunrise, and my thoughts.

I thought about the little girl who grew up on St. Croix. The young woman who became a mother to five children. The woman who struggled, worked, endured, made mistakes, and kept going. The woman with the beautiful jewelry, the elaborate outfits, the love of shopping, and the unmistakable personality.

I thought about the mother I had, the mother I sometimes wished I had, and the mother I now have to remember.

Perhaps that is what grief is. It is making room for all the truths at once.

I cannot rewrite our history, but I can honor hers. I can recognize the hardships she endured without excusing the pain she sometimes caused. I can be grateful for the sacrifices she made while acknowledging what was missing. I can forgive without pretending everything was perfect.

My mother was not an ordinary woman, and hers was not an ordinary life.

She was the ever-ready bunny. She was a survivor. She was a mother of five, a daughter of St. Croix, a Catholic who found her faith again, a talented cook, a bargain hunter, and a woman who loved beautiful clothes and jewelry.

She was a woman of contradictions, strength, flaws, and stories.

She outlived so many of the people she loved. She survived illnesses, injuries, heartbreak, and hardships. And in the end, dementia took away much of what made her independent, but it could never erase the life she had lived or the memories she left behind.

Today, I choose to remember the whole woman.

Not just the illness. Not just the difficult years. Not just the final chapter.

I remember where she came from, what she endured, what she accomplished, and the unmistakable person she was.

And as the sun rose over Amelia Island, I let myself say goodbye.

Rest peacefully, Mom.

May you be reunited with your mother and father, your siblings, and all those who went before you. May the confusion be gone, the suffering be over, and may you finally have the peace that life so often denied you.

You spent a lifetime surviving. Now you can rest.

May perpetual light shine upon you.Amen. ♥