Olivia de Havilland – The Tragic Fate of Her 2 Children
Olivia de Havilland – The Tragic Fate of Her 2 Children
There is a photograph taken at London’s Heathrow Airport in April 1963. Olivia de Havilland, two-time Oscar winner, Hollywood legend, stands on the tarmac holding her teenage son’s hand. It is a completely ordinary travel photograph. Nothing in it suggests what is already quietly unfolding inside that boy’s body, or what it would eventually cost both of them.
She died in 2020 at the age of 104, widely regarded as the last surviving major star of Hollywood’s golden age. Two Academy Awards, a landmark legal victory that changed entertainment law forever, a century of living, and behind all of it, two children whose stories most people never heard. A son who fought the long aftermath of a disease diagnosed in his teenage years, a daughter who chose privacy so completely that most of the world barely knew she existed.
Both of them shaped, in ways visible and invisible, by the woman at the center of it all. Before we get into either of those, we need to go back to the beginning. Segment 10. The woman behind the legend. To understand Olivia de Havilland’s children, you have to first understand who their mother was. Not the version on the screen, but the version that existed between the films and after the cameras stopped rolling.
She was born on July 1st, 1916, in Tokyo, Japan, to a British father and an English mother. Her father, Walter de Havilland, was a patent attorney who had come to Japan for work. Her mother, Lillian, was a trained stage actress with a formidable personality and strong opinions about how her daughters should be raised.
When Olivia was just 3 years old, her parents separated, and her mother eventually moved both Olivia and her younger sister, Joan, later known to the world as Joan Fontaine, to California. Her father stayed behind in Japan and largely removed himself from their lives. The two girls were raised almost entirely by their mother.
The two sisters grew up in Saratoga, a small town in the Santa Clara Valley, about 50 miles south of San Francisco. It was a quiet, relatively ordinary upbringing for two girls who would both go on to win Academy Awards. Olivia was the elder by about 15 months, and from childhood, the dynamic between the two sisters carried a competitive edge that never fully went away.
By her teenage years, Olivia had already begun acting in local theater, displaying a natural talent and a seriousness about the craft that set her apart. When Austrian director Max Reinhardt came to California in 1934 to stage a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Hollywood Bowl, an 18-year-old Olivia was offered a role as an understudy.
When both the lead and the first understudy dropped out just before opening night, she stepped in and played Hermia. Reinhardt was so impressed that he brought her along for the Warner Brothers film version in 1935. That was how it began. Through the late 1930s and into the 1940s, she became one of Warner Brothers’ most prominent leading ladies, often appearing alongside Errol Flynn in adventure films like Captain Blood and The Adventures of Robin Hood.
The two had an undeniable chemistry on screen, and their pairing was enormously popular with audiences. But Olivia was always after something more substantial, and the studio kept assigning her the same type of role, the soft-hearted love interest, the gentle companion, the woman who waited while the man had all the adventure.
She found it limiting and said so. Her frustration eventually led to a legal battle that would define her legacy almost as much as her actual films. In 1943, she took Warner Brothers to court, arguing that the studio had unlawfully extended her contract by adding suspension periods onto the original 7-year term.
It was a genuinely courageous move. Other major stars, including Bette Davis, had tried and failed to challenge the studio system in similar ways. Olivia succeeded. The ruling that came from her case, still known today as the de Havilland law, fundamentally limited how studios could bind actors to long-term contracts.
It changed the balance of power in Hollywood in ways that benefited performers for generations afterward. Her dramatic work in the years that followed earned her five Academy Award nominations and two wins, for To Each His Own in 1946 and The Heiress in 1949. By then, she was widely regarded as one of the finest actresses of her generation, not just a studio contract player, but a genuine artist with something to say.
But by the time that second Oscar arrived, her personal life had already taken a direction that would shape everything that followed. And that direction began with a man named Marcus Goodrich. Segment 9. The first marriage, Marcus Goodrich. In the summer of 1946, while appearing in a stage production at the Westport Country Playhouse in Connecticut, Olivia de Havilland was re-introduced to a man she had briefly met before, Marcus Aurelius Goodrich.
Goodrich was 18 years her senior, born in 1897 in San Antonio, Texas. He was a US Navy veteran, a journalist, and the author of a critically admired 1941 novel called Delilah, set aboard a Navy destroyer. The book had earned serious literary praise, which gave Goodrich a certain standing in intellectual circles, and he wore that standing with obvious pride.
He was intense, well-read, and opinionated in a way that some found magnetic and others found exhausting. He had, in fact, already been married four times before he met Olivia, to four different women across two decades, which said something about how he operated in close quarters. When her sister, Joan Fontaine, heard about the relationship, she was not subtle in her skepticism, remarking that all she knew about the man was that he had had four wives and written one book, and that it was a pity it wasn’t the
other way around. That comment deepened the already troubled rift between the two sisters in ways that would take years to even partially heal. Olivia, for her part, moved forward. She and Goodrich were married on August 26th, 1946, the same day she opened in her Connecticut stage production. The speed of the marriage, only 3 weeks after they reconnected, was notable.
Whatever drew her to him, it drew her quickly. For a few years, the marriage seemed to function on the surface. She continued making films, including some of the most acclaimed work of her career, The Snake Pit in 1948, The Heiress in 1949. He continued writing, or attempting to, but the household had an atmosphere shaped largely by Goodrich’s temperament, which those around them described as unpredictable and domineering.
He was not an easy man to live with, and the tension in the home increased steadily over the years. His controlling behavior extended not just toward his wife, but toward their son, as well, something that was noted by those close to the family. It is worth pausing on that detail, that the controlling atmosphere in the Goodrich household touched Benjamin, too.
He was a small child during the worst of it. Children absorb what is around them, even when adults believe they are shielding them. Whatever Benjamin took from those early years, he carried it with him as he grew. When Olivia filed for divorce in 1952, the language in her legal suit was striking. She stated that Goodrich had pursued a course of cruel treatment and had inflicted grievous physical and mental suffering upon her without provocation or excuse.
The divorce became final the following year. Their son, Benjamin Briggs Goodrich, had been born on September 27th, 1949, the same year Olivia won her second Oscar for The Heiress. He came into the world in Los Angeles to parents whose marriage was already under serious strain. He was 3 years old when the split became official, and just as that first chapter closed, a second one was about to open, in Paris, of all places, thanks to a persistent stranger with a camera and a press pass. Segment 8.
The second marriage, Pierre Galante. In 1953, Olivia was newly divorced and making her way through the world as a single mother with a young son. She brought Benjamin to the Cannes Film Festival that year, and it was there, on the French Riviera, that she first noticed a man watching her. Not in an intrusive way, more like someone trying to work up the courage to say something.
His name was Pierre Galante. He was the executive editor of Paris Match, France’s most widely read illustrated news magazine, and by most accounts, a man of considerable charm. He had been assigned to cover Cannes, and found himself drawn to de Havilland in a way that apparently made concentration on the actual film festival rather difficult.
He was 10 years older than Olivia, and unlike Marcus Goodrich, his reputation among those who knew him was that of a warm and genuinely sociable person, someone who moved easily through the world and made the people around him comfortable. Galante pursued her openly and persistently after that encounter, and eventually she agreed to see him.
The courtship worked. On April 2nd, 1955, they married, and Olivia de Havilland relocated to Paris, a city that would remain her home for the rest of her long life. She settled into a home near the Bois de Boulogne, the large park on the western edge of the city, and began building a life there that was genuinely separate from Hollywood.
She would make films occasionally in the years ahead, but Paris was now the center of gravity. Their daughter, Gisèle Galante, was born on July 18th, 1956. She was born into a more stable household than Benjamin had been, at least in the early years. Olivia was 40 years old at the time of Gisèle’s birth, an age that, in the 1950s, was considered quite late to be having a child.
Benjamin was 6 years old when his half-sister arrived, old enough to be aware of the new shape of the family, but young enough to adapt to it. For a time, the family lived a genuinely Parisian life. Olivia had left the intensity of the Hollywood studio system behind, and had settled into an existence that revolved around her children, her marriage, and selective film work.
Paris gave her something California never had, a degree of privacy, and an identity that wasn’t entirely constructed around her status as a film star. She was a resident of the city, a mother, a wife. She took that seriously. But the marriage to Pierre Galante did not ultimately hold, either. The couple separated in 1962, though they chose, for the sake of Gisèle, to wait until 1979 to finalize the divorce.
It was an unusual arrangement, born of an obvious concern for their daughter’s stability. Gisèle was six when her parents separated, and 23 when the divorce was finally made official. Whatever the strains between Olivia and Pierre, they had decided early on that Gisèle did not need to carry the weight of a broken home while she was still a child.
Even after they separated, they remained close enough that when Galante was diagnosed with lung cancer in his later years, Olivia was the one who looked after him. He died in 1998, having spent his final years with his ex-wife nearby, a testament to something durable that had survived the end of the marriage.
So, by the time Gisèle was grown, she had experienced something fairly unusual, parents who no longer lived as husband and wife, but who clearly still cared about each other’s well-being. That shaped her in particular ways, but it was Olivia’s son, Benjamin, who carried a heavier story, and it had already begun years before anyone in the family fully understood its weight. Segment 7.
Benjamin, the diagnosis. Benjamin Goodrich grew up with his mother in Paris after her move there in the mid-1950s. He attended school in France, was raised in the Episcopal Church, his father’s faith at his mother’s intention, and by all accounts, was an intelligent, quietly driven young man. The photographs from his childhood and early teenage years show a boy who looks comfortable in his own skin, often at his mother’s side in airports and at public events, seemingly unfazed by her fame.
He grew up speaking French and English, moving between cultures with the ease that comes from being genuinely formed by both. He was close with Olivia. That much was evident, not just from photographs, but from the way she would speak about him throughout her life, with a steadiness that only comes from a relationship built on genuine affection and daily presence.
What happened next began at age 19, when Benjamin received a diagnosis that no one in the family had seen coming. Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Hodgkin’s disease, as it was more commonly called at the time, is a cancer of the lymphatic system. In the late 1960s, when Benjamin was diagnosed, medical understanding of the disease had advanced considerably compared to earlier decades.
Treatments existed, and survival rates were improving. But the treatment protocols of that era, while effective at attacking the cancer, came with consequences that doctors were only beginning to fully understand. The therapies used to fight Hodgkin’s could, over time, place enormous stress on the heart and other organs.
For some patients, the damage accumulated quietly over years, even decades, long after the cancer itself had been brought under control. Benjamin fought back against the diagnosis. He didn’t retreat from his ambitions. After his treatment, he returned to academics and eventually earned a degree, and later a master’s, from the University of Texas, an institution he had a particular connection to, given his father’s deep Texas roots.
His great-great-grandfather, also named Benjamin Briggs Goodrich, had been among the signatories of the Texas Declaration of Independence in 1836, a piece of American history that gave the family name a certain gravity. After graduating, Benjamin went to work as a statistical analyst for the Lockheed Missiles and Space Company in Sunnyvale, California.
It was serious, technical work, numbers and trajectories and aerospace logistics, a world away from his mother’s Hollywood legacy, but one he had clearly built on his own terms. He later worked in international banking as a representative for the Texas Commerce Bank in Houston. By any measure, he was living a full and purposeful life, carrying the weight of his diagnosis privately, while the world around him had no idea what the treatments of his teenage years had quietly set in motion inside his body.
None of this looked, from the outside, like the life of someone still living under the shadow of a teenage cancer diagnosis. He was building a real career. He was moving through the world. But the heart was carrying what the treatments had left behind. Segment 6. Benjamin, the long consequence. The particular cruelty of what eventually caught up with Benjamin Goodrich was not the cancer itself.
He had survived that. It was the damage that the treatments had done to his cardiovascular system over the 20-plus years since his diagnosis at 19. By the late 1980s, after years of working in aerospace and banking, Benjamin had made a decision that said a great deal about his character. He returned to the University of Texas to pursue a doctorate.
He was in his late 30s at this point, working towards something longer and more demanding, perhaps because the closer he got to his own limits, the more he wanted to leave something behind. The decision to return to academia after a full career in the private sector is not an easy one. It requires a willingness to start again, to be a student when you have already been a professional.
Benjamin made that choice deliberately. He had moved back to Paris, to his mother’s home, in fact, in the period leading up to his death. That fact alone speaks to how the relationship between mother and son had developed over the decades. Not every adult child could move back in with a parent as celebrated and private as Olivia de Havilland.
Not every mother would have it that way. But that was where he was, in the apartment on the quiet street near the Bois de Boulogne, in the city where he had grown up. There is something circular, and in its own way, peaceful about that. A life that ended in the place where it had been shaped. He died on September 29th, 1991, two days after his 42nd birthday, at his mother’s Paris home.
Heart disease, brought on by the long-term damage caused by his Hodgkin’s treatments. He had carried that ticking consequence inside him for more than two decades before it finally gave out. He was 42 years old. His funeral was held at the American Cathedral in Paris, the same church where his mother had served as a scripture reader for years, and where she herself would eventually be mourned nearly three decades later.
What followed almost immediately after made the loss even harder to absorb. His father, Marcus Goodrich, died just 3 weeks later on October 20th, 1991. He was 93 years old, the man who had caused his mother so much pain, the same man she had described after his death as a masterful writer and a remarkable person, died barely 3 weeks after his only son.
Father and son gone within the same month. Olivia was 75 years old when all of this happened. She had in 1 month lost both her first child and her first husband. She would live for nearly 30 more years after that. There is something deeply unusual about outliving your child by three decades, about continuing to live in the same Paris apartment where your son spent his final months, about going on to receive honors, give interviews, and attend events, all while carrying that particular weight.
She never spoke extensively in public about Benjamin’s death. She was not a person who weaponized grief for attention, but those who knew her understood that his absence had changed the texture of her later years in ways that no award or honor could touch. And her daughter, watching all of this, had already quietly chosen a very different path through the world.
Segment five. Giselle, the quiet life. If Benjamin’s story is defined by a diagnosis and its long shadow, Giselle Gallante’s story is defined mostly by deliberate absence, her near total withdrawal from the public world her mother inhabited. Born in Paris on July 18th, 1956, Giselle grew up in the city that had become her mother’s home.
She was the daughter of Pierre Gallante, the French journalist, and she inherited something of his professional sensibility. She did not go into acting. She did not pursue a career that placed her in front of cameras or audiences. Instead, she studied law at the Université de Droit de Nanterre School of Law in Paris, a rigorous academic training, and then transitioned into journalism, working as a reporter for both French and American outlets.
It was, in a meaningful sense, a career that combined both parents, her father’s professional world and her mother’s ability to move between French and American cultures. She built it quietly, without fanfare. Giselle married twice. Her first marriage was to Edward Roy Broider. That union ended in April 2006 with his death after less than a year of marriage.
Her second marriage was to Andrew Chulack on September 18th, 2011. She has no children, which means that when Olivia de Havilland died in July 2020 at the age of 104, she left behind no grandchildren. The line, after all of that history, simply stops there. What is known about Giselle’s relationship with her mother speaks to a genuine closeness that deepened as both women aged.
When Olivia was appointed Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire in June 2017 at the age of 101, and received her honor from the British Ambassador to France at her Paris apartment in March 2018, Giselle was at her side. At the time of her mother’s death in 2020, it was Giselle who handled the estate and the many details that come with the passing of someone who had been famous for over 80 years.
She has spoken with genuine warmth about her mother, noting in one interview that Olivia had tremendous respect for her fans and answered nearly every letter she received, and that Giselle herself had often helped her do so. After Olivia’s death, Giselle oversaw the auction of her mother’s personal effects and Hollywood mementos, including items that had belonged to Bette Davis, one of Olivia’s closest lifelong friends, and artifacts from collaborations that stretched all the way back to the 1930s.
Giselle specifically requested that a portion of the proceeds from her mother’s estate be donated to the American Cathedral in Paris, a place that had been deeply meaningful to Olivia for decades. That detail, donating to the cathedral, says something. Olivia had been one of the first women to read scripture publicly at that cathedral back in the 1970s.
She had been on the regular rotation for readings on major religious occasions well into her 90s. The cathedral was where, in 1991, Benjamin’s funeral services had been held. It was a building that held both grief and devotion in the same walls. Giselle understood that. She carried it forward. Segment four. The household they grew up in.
There is a question that doesn’t get asked often enough when people discuss Olivia de Havilland’s later life, and it is this. What was it actually like to grow up as her child? Benjamin and Giselle had a mother who was one of the most recognizable women in the world for the first several decades of their lives, someone who received standing ovations at the Academy Awards in 2003, her final appearance there, simply by walking onto the stage, someone who was still reading scripture at a cathedral in Paris into her 90s,
and who, at 101, became the oldest woman ever to receive the Dame Commander title from the British Crown. That is an enormous presence to grow up alongside, and yet the evidence suggests that both children navigated it in reasonably healthy ways. Benjamin by building a technical career in aerospace and academia, Giselle by stepping into journalism and maintaining a private family life.
Neither of them seemed to be running away from something. They just made choices. But Olivia had also, as a mother, made deliberate choices about how she raised them. She had deliberately raised Benjamin in the Episcopal Church and Giselle in the Roman Catholic faith, each child in the religion of their respective father.
That level of intentionality, of thinking carefully about what each child specifically needed, suggests a mother who was paying attention even when the world was also demanding enormous amounts of her attention. It is worth noting, too, that both children grew up in Paris rather than in Hollywood. That was not an accident.
After her move there in the mid-1950s, Olivia built her life at a deliberate distance from the machinery of the American film industry. Her children went to school in France. They grew up bilingual. They understood French culture from the inside, not as outsiders looking in. Benjamin carried that in the way he moved through the world, the Texas family roots, the Parisian childhood, the American university years, a genuinely international sensibility built from a genuinely international life.
Giselle, perhaps even more so. She studied French law, worked as a journalist in both France and the United States, and occupied a space between two cultures so naturally that it seemed less like an identity she had constructed and more like simply who she was. Both children had inherited something real from the unusual geography of their upbringing.
The household also had the particular texture of one shaped by a parent who had been through a great deal before her children arrived. Olivia was 33 when Benjamin was born and 40 when Giselle came along. She was not a young mother starting out with everything still open in front of her. She was a woman who had already fought a landmark legal battle, won two Oscars, lived through the collapse of a difficult marriage, and relocated herself to a foreign country.
She knew things. That knowledge had to have shaped the atmosphere in that Paris apartment, even when it was never put into words. She had also remained close to both her ex-husbands in ways that must have mattered to the children. She said kind things about Marcus Goodrich publicly after his death. She cared for Pierre Gallante through his final illness after cancer took hold, despite having been legally separated from him for decades.
The children were watching a woman who, despite two marriages that ultimately didn’t hold, chose not to let bitterness define the relationships. That is not nothing. It is, in fact, quite rare. Segment three. A mother who outlived her son. There is no tidy way to account for the arithmetic of Olivia de Havilland’s life.
She was born in 1916. Her son was born in 1949. He died in 1991. She lived until 2020. She spent 29 years as a mother who had outlived her child. In the years after Benjamin’s death, she continued to give occasional interviews, to appear at select public events, and to maintain the composed, dignified presence that had always defined her public persona.
She was not a woman who dramatized her private sorrows for an audience. In the rare instances when she addressed Benjamin’s death, she did so with restraint. What she said about his father, the man who had caused her documented suffering during their marriage, was that she had deep regard for him as a person and considered him a masterful writer.
That statement, made after both Goodrich and Benjamin were gone, was its own kind of closure. She had found a way to hold the complicated truth of that first marriage without letting anger be the last word. But there is a particular kind of endurance required of a parent who buries a child and then goes on living for three more decades.
The world expects you to absorb it, to carry it without letting it show too obviously, and then to continue being whoever the world needs you to be. Olivia de Havilland did exactly that. She continued being Olivia de Havilland, the actress, the icon, the dame, the woman who had once taken Hollywood’s most powerful studio to court and won.
None of that erased what September 1991 had taken from her. The fact that her son died in her own home, that she had been there, nearby, in the weeks and months leading up to it, gives the loss a particular kind of intimacy that is easy to gloss over when you read it in a brief biography. He had come back to Paris.
He had been working on his doctorate, reaching towards something. She had been his mother until the very last moment. Whatever conversations passed between them in those final months, they happened in a Paris apartment on a quiet street near the Bois de Boulogne, out of sight of the cameras and the awards ceremonies and the retrospectives.
And then his father died 3 weeks later. And whatever complicated feelings she had about Marcus Goodrich, the difficult first husband, the source of documented suffering during their marriage, the man she later described as a remarkable person, those had to be processed at the same time, in the same grief-saturated weeks.
She was 75 years old. She handled it the way she had handled everything else in her life, by continuing to exist and to do so with as much grace as she could manage. Segment two. The final years and what was left behind. Olivia de Havilland spent her last years in the same Paris apartment she had lived in for decades.
The city had been her home for longer than most people had known her as a film star. It was the place where she had raised both her children, where she had cared for Pierre Galante at the end of his life, where Benjamin had come back to in his final months, and where, on July 26th, 2020, she died quietly in her sleep.
She was 104 years old. In her final decade, she had largely withdrawn from public life, but remained mentally sharp and engaged with the world around her. She had continued reading, continued corresponding with people who mattered to her, and continued attending services at the American Cathedral, which had been a constant presence in her Parisian life since the 1970s.
She had been one of the first women to serve as a reader there, reading scripture aloud to the congregation, and the practice had stayed with her across decades. There was something fitting about that. A woman who had spent her professional life giving voice to other people’s words had, in her private life, found deep meaning in giving voice to words that carried a different kind of weight entirely.
Her funeral was held at the American Cathedral in Paris, the same building where her son’s services had been held 29 years earlier. She was cremated and her ashes were placed in the crematorium at Père Lachaise, the famous Parisian cemetery that holds so many of history’s most significant figures. Plans were made for her ashes to eventually be transferred to a family burial place on the British island of Guernsey, a nod to the English family roots her father had carried with him when he first moved to Japan decades
before she was born. Giselle survived her. She was in her 60s when her mother died, and she stepped into the work of settling the estate and preserving the legacy with the careful attention of someone who had spent a lifetime watching how her mother lived. In one of her most telling comments in the period after Olivia’s death, she noted that her mother had answered nearly every fan letter she ever received, and that she, Giselle, had sat beside her helping with the responses.
That image, a 90-something Olivia de Havilland at a table in her Paris apartment working through letters from strangers with her daughter helping alongside her, is somehow more revealing than any of the awards or legal battles or famous film roles. It is an image of a woman who, to the very end, took her relationships seriously, with her fans, with her faith, with her family.
She had won two Oscars. She had changed entertainment law. She had been appointed a Dame of the British Empire at 101. She had appeared in Gone with the Wind and watched the world change around her for a century. And she had also sat in a Paris apartment in 1991 in the week after her son’s death and had to find a way to keep getting up in the morning.
Both of those things are true. The second one is not less important than the first. Segment one. Looking back. When you lay out the full picture of what happened to Olivia de Havilland’s two children, certain things stand out. Benjamin Briggs Goodrich was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma at 19 and spent the next two decades building a genuinely accomplished life, academic, professional, multilingual, international, before the long-term damage from his treatment caught up with him at 42.
He died on his birthday. He died in his mother’s home. His father followed him out of the world 3 weeks later. Two generations gone in a single month. He never married, as far as the record shows, and left behind no children of his own. The Goodrich line that had run from the Texas Declaration of Independence through a Navy novelist to a statistical analyst working on his doctorate in Paris simply ended there, quietly, in a Paris apartment.
Giselle Galante Chulack is still alive. She is in her late 60s. She built a career in journalism, married twice, and has no children. She is the last person on Earth who knew Olivia de Havilland as a mother rather than as an icon. That is an unusual position to occupy, to be the sole remaining keeper of the private version of a very famous life.
She has carried it with evident care and without any apparent interest in the spotlight her mother occupied so naturally for so many decades. What both children had in common was a mother who was extraordinarily present in the way she chose to remain close to them, regardless of what else was happening in her professional life or in the aftermath of her marriages.
She moved to Paris and stayed there. She raised her children in the city where she had chosen to build her real life. She did not farm out the emotional labor of parenting to someone else while she pursued her career. When her son came back to Paris in his final months, she was there. When her daughter needed her mother by her side for a ceremony at 101, she was there.
That does not make her a saint, and the children of famous parents carry burdens that are hard to fully quantify. But it does mean something that both Benjamin and Giselle grew into people who seemed, by all available evidence, to genuinely like and respect their mother, not merely love her out of obligation, but actually want to be around her and to carry what she stood for into whatever came after she was gone.
In the end, the story of Olivia de Havilland’s children is not a story of dramatic scandal or tabloid spectacle. It is something quieter and more lasting than that. It is the story of a woman who survived an enormous amount, professionally, personally, medically, and who, through all of it, kept showing up for the people who mattered most to her.
She outlived most of them. That is its own kind of weight. But she showed up every time for as long as she could. If you enjoyed this video, please like and subscribe to our channel so you never miss out on more fascinating stories.