Black Widow

A Sad-Funny Journey Through Grief for People Who Normally Avoid Books with Words Like "Journey" in the Title


By Leslie Gray Streeter

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With her signature warmth, hilarity, and tendency to overshare, Leslie Gray Streeter gives us real talk about love, loss, grief, and healing in your own way that "will make you laugh and cry, sometimes on the same page" (James Patterson).

Leslie Gray Streeter is not cut out for widowhood. She's not ready for hushed rooms and pitying looks. She is not ready to stand graveside, dabbing her eyes in a classy black hat. If she had her way she'd wear her favorite curve-hugging leopard print dress to Scott's funeral; he loved her in that dress! But, here she is, having lost her soulmate to a sudden heart attack, totally unsure of how to navigate her new widow lifestyle. ("New widow lifestyle." Sounds like something you'd find products for on daytime TV, like comfy track suits and compression socks. Wait, is a widow even allowed to make jokes?)

Looking at widowhood through the prism of race, mixed marriage, and aging, Black Widow redefines the stages of grief, from coffin shopping to day-drinking, to being a grown-ass woman crying for your mommy, to breaking up and making up with God, to facing the fact that life goes on even after the death of the person you were supposed to live it with. While she stumbles toward an uncertain future as a single mother raising a baby with her own widowed mother (plot twist!), Leslie looks back on her love story with Scott, recounting their journey through racism, religious differences, and persistent confusion about what kugel is. Will she find the strength to finish the most important thing that she and Scott started?

Tender, true, and endearingly hilarious, Black Widow is a story about the power of love, and how the only guide book for recovery is the one you write yourself.


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Now, This Is a Story
All About How
My Life Got Flipped—
Turned Upside Down

Here," says the nice enough salesman, pointing to the lawn crypt to his right, "your loved one would go in first, with his head facing this way. And when it's time, you would go in headfirst, so your heads and hearts are touching for eternity."


Nice Enough Salesman makes reference to concepts like eternity and togetherness and how, forty or fifty years from now, the body that used to be me can be placed facing what's left of what used to be my husband, Scott.

All I can hear is Your husband is dead. Your husband is dead. Pick a box, your husband is dead.

You'll forgive me for not thinking clearly right now, because my husband very recently dropped dead in front of me while we were making out. And when I say "very recently," I mean yesterday.

I have to pull myself together and deal with this sometime—well, right now, probably—but what I really want to do is jump on the golf cart from which my mother is nervously watching me and drive us to the nearest bar.

I should be at the Palm Beach Post, the newspaper I write for, finishing a column about the free drinks Scott and I were supposed to have had as "research" for a cocktail story. That "research" was supposed to have happened yesterday afternoon, right around the time our stunned, sobbing relatives began landing at the airport. We were supposed to be celebrating the job Scott was supposed to start on Monday before we picked up our adorably goofy baby boy from day care.

Supposed to doesn't mean crap.

Instead, I'm at a cemetery trying to pretend that any scenario that involves my husband in a crypt is at all okay. Having to even think about this crypt instead of free drinks is pissing me off.

"I guess it's not legal to keep him in a refrigerated travel-trailer in my backyard?" I ask Nice Enough Salesman, who looks startled. The widow's got jokes! Perhaps this is not the time?

"Unfortunately, no."

I feel like we're doing some twisted vaudeville bit—he's an appliance salesman with a baggy suit and a comically large flower on his lapel trying to talk a dizzy housewife into buying a newfangled washing machine, but she has to wait for her husband's permission to buy it. The joke—and this is a good one—is that she can't ask him 'cause, you know…he's dead.

That isn't funny at all, is it?

I cannot fully fathom how we got here, because for the past twenty-four hours I swear I keep blacking out and somehow materializing in jacked-up places like funeral homes and cemeteries. I do know this: My Scotty, who had not been feeling well for a few days, got up in the middle of the night to pee. He noted that our almost-two-year-old son, Brooks, was still sleeping soundly across the hall and asked if I wanted to make out. Since I still had a few hours before the deadline for a story I was writing, and because I don't turn down twilight make-outs, I agreed. Then we started kissing until he stopped me—he never stopped me—and said that something was wrong.

I turned on the light and saw Scott's head shaking, kind of like a blender that keeps rumbling three seconds after you turn it off. I wasn't really awake yet, so I couldn't quite understand what was happening, what I could not stop from happening. I can't tell you how much time passed—thirty seconds or a hundred years—but as quickly as Scott had started shaking, he stopped moving.

"What's happening?" I half screamed, half pleaded. Scott didn't answer. All I know is that finally he let out two desperate, involuntary breaths.

Then he didn't breathe again.

That was yesterday.

So what I want is for Nice Enough Salesman to give me a minute, because things are kind of fucked up right now. I'm planning a traditional-ish Jewish funeral for my husband when I'm supposed to be planning his forty-fifth birthday party. I'm black and Baptist, and he's a white Jewish guy. I feel a little out of my depth. Also, what the hell? We are in the middle of finalizing the adoption of the aforementioned sleeping baby, who's been with us since he was six months old but is still not yet legally ours. I actually just got back from Maryland, the state of all of our births, after one in a series of very stressful legal proceedings to make sure we get to keep him. I'm supposed to be focusing on that, not standing here in this stupid cemetery deciding whether Scott's body will spend eternity in a fancy wall or in a hole in the ground in the Jewish section or in some nondenominational section so he can be buried with me, his black Baptist wife. My understanding is that I can't be buried in the Jewish section when I eventually die. I can't imagine that's going to be any time soon, but then again, Scott's not supposed to be dead either. So I don't know what to tell you.

As Nice Enough Salesman continues his sales pitch, I look back over at my mother, who sits several yards away on a golf cart with my twin sister, Lynne, my best friend, Melanie, and Scott's cousin Kim, whom the black Baptists have brought along for her specific area of expertise.

"We need a Jewish person," I told her that morning when she showed up at our house, in shock but wanting to be useful. When someone you love dies, that's what you do. You do everything you can to be useful so you don't have time to remember that someone you love has just died.

My sister and Melanie, both of whom came in from Baltimore yesterday and are running on fumes and stunned adrenaline, are eating out of a bag of chips. I think Mel got them on the plane. Wait, am I hungry? Probably. To date, my mourning diet has consisted of wine, cake, and last night's garlicky hummus, which I probably still smell like. Not my problem. I have lost a pound. And, yes, even tragic and disorienting sudden death cannot stop me from weighing myself. I guess I cried off a pound. Is it wrong to be happy about that?

"Thank you for telling me about the crypt," I say, turning back to the salesman, who seems to have finally finished his pitch, even though the crypt seems super-creepy and there's no way in hell we're doing that corpse head-to-head thing. "I know you haven't mentioned it yet," I continue because I seem to be expected to keep talking, "but how much do your mausoleums run?"

I can see Cousin Kim shaking her head. She's pretty sure that Scott wouldn't have wanted a mausoleum, but since he insists on being dead and I have to be here anyway, like I'm car shopping, I might as well check out this part of the showroom.

"We don't talk about numbers here. We like to keep that for the end," Nice Enough Salesman says. "Don't want to overwhelm and confuse you."

Too late, man!

In the past forty-eight hours, my life—the one that included a husband and baby and job and was generally awesome—has become a great sparkly clusterfuck. I haven't even figured out how to tell my not-quite-two-year-old that Daddy's not actually working late. I have not the first effing clue how to even process this toxic cloud that's blown up my life. But I'm pretty sure I can handle a price list.

Nice Enough Salesman is very pleasant, so I smile and get back on the cart. He drives it to a small fenced-in area of grave markers of various shapes and sizes inscribed with an eclectic collection of names—a Korean here, an Irishman over there in the corner, some random WASPs.

"Some Random WASPs. That's a good band name," I whisper to Scott, who cannot hear me.

I remember once interviewing a man whose wife had been killed in a hit-and-run maybe six hours before he answered the phone and found an apologetic young reporter on the other end asking him about losing the love of his life. I told him repeatedly how sorry I was, but he stopped me.

"No," the newly minted widower insisted, "I want people to know who she was, that she wasn't just some name in an accident report. And if I wait too long, the shock will have worn off, and I won't be able to do this anymore." I thought I understood then, when I was single and twenty-four, but now at forty-four, I think that man was a wizard. I don't know how he formed words and coherent thoughts in that state, but he's my hero. Somebody's gotta do this shit, and since I don't have staff or a personal secretary, it's me. And I better do it now before reality sets in and the shock gives way to despair and inertia and I just can't do anything anymore.

So I get off the cart and grab the bag of chips. It's probably tacky to be surveying the tranquil garden where my true love will be residing forever while wiping artificial barbecue dust off my fingers. It'll have to do. Nice Enough Salesman beckons me farther in, explaining that there are available plots in this section. It's the United Nations of Dead Folks, and therefore depressingly perfect, because Scott and I were an old-person Benetton ad.

Next to the space Scott might be moving into is a large shiny headstone displaying the smiling face of a young black kid. I guess he is maybe fifteen? Was fifteen. Shit. I can't bear it. I look away.

"Hey. Stop dropping chips on the dead people," my mother hisses from the golf cart. She is also a widow, having lost my daddy to the rudest, dumbest kidney cancer imaginable three years ago. And yes, I'm a forty-four-year-old woman who still calls her parents Mommy and Daddy because we're tangentially Southern and that's a thing. Mommy, as an unfortunate expert in this stuff, knows that dropping chips on the manicured lawn of Benetton Grave Village is not a thing I should be doing. But I'm a tragic widow now, so I do what I want.

A minute or so later, we head back to the funeral home to make some decisions, because apparently some have to be made, and I seem to be where the sad, shitty buck stops.

"What do you think?" my mom whispers.

"I think we're going to go with the garden," I say. See? I'm making decisions! Getting shit done! Why, just yesterday, about six hours after I returned home from the hospital without my husband, I picked out Scott's casket, with help from Kim and my two other guest Jews, Scott's cousin Kenny and my friend Shana. I wonder if I'm being insensitive, asking these people I care about to tap into their lifelong knowledge of Jewish customs and explain everything to me. How would I feel if one of them was married to a black person and summoned me to Ebenezer Whatever Baptist-AME Church as the spokes-Negro?

I think I'd understand.

Anyway, yesterday we'd picked out the casket—a traditional austere plain pine box—and finalized other stupid funeral details, and I knew that this was only the first toe-dip into an Olympic-size pool of horrible that I was going to have to eventually swim all the way through. I didn't even want to get into that pool. But I have no choice but to wade in, sit there, and smile as some guy walked me through sales packages—effing packages, like we were picking spa services.

So, as distasteful as it is, here we are today, deciding that Scott will be buried in Benetton Village next to a nice black teenager and, one day, me. He will be in that lovely, Jewish-law-compliant pine box. There will be punch and finger foods and a montage of photos, some taken just three or four days ago on the beach with our still-clueless boy when we used to be happy and Scott used to be alive.

I liked that life.

I want it back.

But that seems to be the only package they don't offer here.


Love Is All Around

Not long after Scott died, I told his best friend Jason, whom he'd known since they were kids and who was hurting just as bad as I was, that I wanted to write a book about this hellish thing we'd been plunged into. He paused for a moment, so long a moment that I was afraid he was going to tell me it was a bad idea.

"I think you should," Jason finally said, the volume in his voice rising just so, "but don't just make him some guy that died. Don't just write about him dying. Write about Scott."

So, ladies and gents—meet my husband. Wish he were here to read along with you. I hope he would have dug it.

As I told you a little while back, Scott was Jewish and white, and I am Christian and black. None of that gave us a moment's hesitation when we got together; there was no movie montage of us in our separate apartments staring into the distance going, "How will I ever bridge these differences? What's it all for? Why am I hearing sad violins and mournful eighties jazz saxophones?"

I'd like to say that we were drawn to each other's pure natures and generosity, but we also shared a love of soap operas, Cheetos, and barely concealed giggling about inappropriate things in delicate public situations. We once found ourselves at a mightily fancy Palm Beach dinner party that I was writing about, something right out of a Marx Brothers movie I would not have been cast in. We were seated at different tables, because I guess that's what fancy people do. There we were, this random pauper couple sitting next to strangers, noticing that the only other black people in attendance were clearing the dishes. We tried to be chill about it, but it's not like we didn't already stand out.

Scott told me later that one of the ladies at his table was going on and on about a trip she'd taken to the Ivory Coast to shoot white doves, and all he could think was You went to Africa to kill the Jewish bird of peace. We cracked each other up, me and that guy.

There were so many fish-out-of-water situations that became the kind of stupid-funny memories the two of you giggle about as you fall asleep at night, your toes touching in the dark and your sleepy love thoughts making it funnier than it probably was. Consider my introduction to kugel at his cousin's Yom Kippur break-fast. I was holding up the line trying to figure out what all these noodle-looking dishes were when I really just needed to move the hell on because folks had been fasting and were getting testy. "It's all just kugel!" one of his exasperated aunts finally shouted. "Pick a kugel and go!"

My dating life had been…interdenominational, but I had always thought that eventually I'd marry a Christian guy, because that's what I was supposed to do. My family thought I would too.

"So, I understand that he's a Jew," my grandfather the Reverend Lester James Sr. said when he called to congratulate me on my engagement to some dude I'd been dating just six months and whom he hadn't yet met.

"Yes, sir."

"I don't suppose he's a black Jew?"

"No, sir. Just a regular white one."

Sigh, followed by a long silence. Then: "Well, they do have black Jews, you know. Just saying."

By the time my granddaddy died, two years later, he and Scott were tight, having bonded over all the things they had in common, like their shared love of reading and movies and hearing themselves talk. Also, they both loved me. That was a small victory, because my mom's side of the family, of which my granddaddy was the patriarch, is very protective and kind of proper in an austere, churchy-suit sort of way. Like the Obamas but with less cash.

My granddaddy had worked very hard to get us as far in life as he could; he and his then-young family, including my mom, literally had to flee South Carolina when his own father was murdered in the 1950s by a white policeman who thought he was uppity. That and the general experience of being a black man growing up during Jim Crow made him understandably wary of some situations. He was mostly cool with most people until they gave him reason not to be, but I don't think he ever considered the possibility that he might one day have a white grandson-in-law. And since he was a preacher, he really wasn't expecting the Jewish part.

By the time Scott and I got together, I'd had plenty of crushes on men of all nations. What they all seemed to have in common was being wrong for me, because it turns out that I have horrific taste in men.

When my extended family met Scott—who was an upgrade in every way—I hadn't brought around a boyfriend in ten years, and the last one they'd met was also Jewish and white. So it wasn't exactly an M. Night Shyamalan movie twist—Bruce Willis is dead and Leslie's dating a Jew! Because they're well-mannered, proper people, my family was immediately hospitable. Maybe they realized that love is love. Or maybe they really wanted grandbabies. I was in my late thirties, and we'd had to buy plane tickets to come meet everyone, and they knew I wouldn't shell out cash money on some fool I wasn't serious about. All of us were on our best behavior, on both sides of the table. If Scott had said something dumb, I know it would have been reported back to me later. In detail.

But everybody liked him, because Scott was really hard not to like. He went out of his way for people—he was always the guy who jumped up and refilled everybody's drink. I knew he'd won over my granddaddy for sure by the time of my sister's wedding, a month after Scott's mom had died. (So much dying.) My granddaddy had lost his mom, too, so they had that in common. And they talked, walking and nodding quietly. Both such good talkers. Also, Scott and I were already married by then, and no foolishness had been reported back to my granddaddy, so he happily accepted that this unexpected but nice not-black Jew wasn't going anywhere, though sometimes he got mixed up and called him Stu.

"It's Scott," I would hiss under my breath, but my husband always shushed me. "He likes me," he'd say. "Stu's close enough. Let it go." (He occasionally called my brother-in-law A.C. "A.J." so neither of them took it personally.)

Granddaddy and Scott's finest moment was one Father's Day when my husband automatically stationed himself next to my stepgrandmother Bernie, who was frail and ill at the time. Scott patiently and lovingly helped her lift her water glass to her lips, gently wiped her mouth, whispered to her which dish was which, and made sure she got the next helping of whatever she wanted. I got up to thank him for being so attentive, but he waved me off.

"She reminds me of my bubbe," he explained. A man who loves his bubbe is a good man. If my whole family wasn't already in love with him, they were sold later in the meal when Scott volunteered to call Red Lobster about getting our massive and expensive takeout order very wrong.

"I'm Jewish and negotiating is my thing," he said, smiling, and my family, well versed as we are in the art of the Strongly Worded Letter, were amused enough to let him try, politically incorrect stereotypes notwithstanding. By the end of the phone call he was explaining in a raised Al Pacino tone of voice that not only was our order wrong, but the tartar sauce was expired.

"We have elderly people here! My wife's grandmother is sick! You want her to eat expired tartar sauce?" Over the top? Sure. Effective? You know it! Red Lobster did not, it turns out, want my elderly stepgrandmother to consume expired seafood condiments, so they refunded more than half of the meal to my aunt's credit card. By the time Scott hung up, he was the family hero.

"Stu! Stu! Stu!" they chanted in celebration, because we are all tacky and think we're clever. This confused my dad, who was just coming in at the time and had missed the whole thing.

"Why is everybody calling Scott 'Jew'?" he asked.

By then, it seemed like Scott and I had known each other forever. Technically, we almost had, if knowing each other means "I used to sit behind you in Humanities class and know everyone you know but not quite you." Scott and I actually met in high school in Baltimore in 1985, although we barely spoke to each other back then. He'd gone to college with my twin sister, and I'd kept vague track of him in that "How's that dude we went to high school with?" sort of way.

If you're only hip to the very white John Waters retro version of Baltimore or the crime-laden The Wire version, here's a thing you should know: it's a very ethnic city, specifically a very black one, or at least it was when I was growing up.

Dig: I had a black pediatrician, a black dentist, and black teachers. I also knew the black men who clung to their paper-bag-wrapped bottles in front of the liquor store down the street from my house, which was also a few blocks away from Morgan State University, the historically black college where my parents started dating.

My experience is a black experience, not the black experience. The black experience is not a thing. Some of the unenlightened might describe twerking and pimping and Good Times–like stuff as "black." Those things are, indeed, a part of black culture. But when I and most of the people I grew up with describe things as "super-black," we're talking about highly educated people with dreads or Afros who protest everything and call each other "my sista" or "my queen" and who got arrested for demonstrating against apartheid in the 1980s and '90s. Black Panther is super-black. Harvard's Professor Skip Gates and the mannered, casual way he calls celebrities "my brotha" is super-black. What's Happening!! was as black to me as The Cosby Show, which was the closest thing I had to watching myself on TV growing up. Given what we now know about Bill Cosby, that seems unsettling, but it wasn't in 1984. I'm not a wizard.

There are myriad ways of being black, just like there are myriad ways of being white, Latinx, Native, Asian, and anything else one identifies with. I'm not sure why this is still so hard for people to get. Scott grew up in Baltimore at the same time I did, so our personal experiences were both similar and foreign to each other. His neighborhood was historically Jewish, but by the time he came around, it was somewhat black-speckled. That gave him an advantage that most white people do not have, in that the whole spectrum of blackness was not a mystery to him. (Some might not think that's an advantage, but screw those people.) He had black teachers, black bosses, a black Little League coach. He also got mugged by a black guy who tried to jack his leather coat at the bus stop on his first day of high school; Scott lied and said it was really pleather. (The guy let him keep it.)

Scott was more into some things considered culturally black than I was. For instance, while I was headed to Lilith Fair and sobbing along to Jewel songs, he was a classic-hip-hop fan who worshipped KRS-One and NWA. But he never claimed to be black, or blacker than me. I have deleted people on who claim that shit. If your profile says that you think quoting Snoop Dogg or having always had a crush on Janet Jackson is equivalent to being black, then you can go sit down somewhere.

Scott understood that and understood parts of my culture while passionately embracing his, because he was smart enough to recognize where the boundaries were fluid and where there was ebb and flow. He felt deeply Jewish, more than he felt just white, even though he also acknowledged that he carried the privilege of being white and would be seen as such where I…would not. He was also white enough that sometimes restaurant hostesses assumed we weren't together even when we were literally holding hands and had been sitting next to each other in the lobby for fifteen minutes.

As much credit as we gave ourselves for being aware and appreciative of each other's cultures, that shit became real real when we married into them. I remember going to his cousin's house not long after our wedding, already self-conscious about being the only non-Jewish and black family member. (And, yes, as my granddaddy said, there are many black Jewish people. I just am not one of them.) There was a Hasidic rabbi there who had straight-up told Scott not to marry me because I wasn't Jewish. I felt like the heroine in some overwrought 1980s movie of the week called The Color of Love or The Price of Love or some clichéd thing with Love in it.

When the rabbi and his family rolled in, I decided to be the bigger person and offer him my hand, which he declined. I was about to get all "We Shall Overcome" about it until Scott reminded me that Hasidic men can't touch women they aren't married to, and I felt kinda stupid. I'd been two seconds from causing a scene and looking hella ignorant. Whoops.

Our respective faiths were huge to us, both religiously and culturally. Over time, I came to understand what being Jewish meant to Scott, and he came to understand more about what being black and Baptist meant to me. We learned these things because we loved each other enough to learn. Note, young people—anyone who doesn't love you enough to do that doesn't love you.

Scott was raised by Reform Jewish parents but had an Orthodox grandfather, so he was very into social justice and also read Hebrew really well. He had been through eleventy-three years of Hebrew school and said he used to go to hours-long Orthodox services where you couldn't leave, eat, drink, or see any girls. (He was one of the only people I ever met who found your typical black Baptist church service, which is so long you wish you'd packed a lunch, breezy and short.)


  • One of Glamour’s Best Books of 2020
  • "Tender, clever, and endearing, this story of love and loss will have you alternating between laughter and tears. Leslie's mix of break-it-down humor and heartbreaking truth make this book playful and deep in all the right places."—Tembi Locke, New York Timesbestselling author of From Scratch
  • "So often, readers feel it's not okay to laugh in times of grief, but Streeter not only reminds us its okay, she encourages it. Black Widow has earned a place on the shelf next to Joan Didion and Cheryl Strayed in the realm of the grief memoir."—Booklist
  • "Black Widow is a beautiful love story that also happens to be a grief story. Leslie Gray Streeter tells the whole tale-falling in love, marriage, adopting, parenthood, death, moving on-with her captivating wit. Only she could make Black Widow so deeply moving, painfully funny, altogether unforgettable."—Rob Sheffield, author of Dreaming the Beatles and Love is a Mix Tape
  • "Black Widow is a very special one of a kind book, a wonderfully touching love story that will make you laugh and cry, sometimes on the same page. Even more outstanding is Leslie Gray Streeter's voice. You won't soon forget Black Widow."—James Patterson
  • "Grief is a heavy darkness with spots of unexpected, unpredictable light. Leslie's book is a light for those still stuck in the dark--a sad, funny, personal story filled with universal truths about life and love and loss."—Nora McInerny, author of The Hot Young Widows Club and No Happy Endings
  • "I can only marvel at Leslie Streeter's resilience, humor, and candor. Black Widow is a funny, heartwarming read about one of the worst things that can happen to a person. We should all be this grounded in our day-to-day lives."—Laura Lippman, NewYork Times bestselling author of Ladyin the Lake
  • "When Streeter's husband died, leaving her to raise their baby with her mother, also a widow, the journalist and playwright was plunged into a new, surprisingly funny life of coffin shopping and staring down racism."—Glamour
  • "This hopeful account will appeal to readers who enjoy stories of resiliency and new life chapters."—Publishers Weekly
  • A laugh-out-loud book for women who aren't ready to navigate widowhood in the traditional way.—New York Post
  • "This is a great read for anyone who's suffered loss of a loved one. I'd say it's chicken soup for any soul in grief. Anyone who reads this will undoubtedly feel consoled."—Aphrodite Jones
  • "I can't recommend this book enough. It made me realize how much I love my family and that LOVE conquers all."—Johnathon Schaech
  • "In her seriocomic debut, Palm Beach Post entertainment columnist Streeter pays tribute to her husband, Scott, by sharing detailed stories about their life together and her many struggles dealing with his death...Streeter's candid exploration will resonate with those who have dealt with similar circumstances. A love-filled eulogy to a beloved husband and the special times the couple shared before he died."—Kirkus
  • "If this book title isn't already a knockout to you, then I don't know what to say. But in all seriousness, humor is necessary to survive grief, and Leslie Gray Streeter imbues her memoir of losing her husband with just that. A love story that contemplates death, race, and single motherhood, Streeter's book is not something to gloss over."—San Francisco Weekly
  • "Using humor and a powerful narrative, Streeter guides us into an unexpected life of widowhood, single motherhood, and newfound wisdom."—Palm Beach Daily News

On Sale
Mar 10, 2020
Page Count
272 pages

Leslie Gray Streeter

About the Author

Leslie Gray Streeter is an entertainment columnist for the Palm Beach Post. Her writing has been featured in the Miami Herald, Modern Loss, and elsewhere. Streeter’s many speaking engagements include annual appearances at Camp Widow, a national organization for widowed people reaching nearly 500,000, and a series of book club events for women. Leslie lives in West Palm Beach with her mother, Tina, and her son, Brooks.

Learn more about this author