When you walk through the children’s book aisle, you’ll find shelves full of bright covers, silly characters, and playful rhymes. And don’t get us wrong—those books have their place. But the My Family series was created to do something different. Something deeper.

We’re not just telling stories—we’re opening conversations.

Each My Family book gently explores topics that many families struggle to talk about: loss, adoption, disabilities, divorce, cultural differences, and more. These are the real-life moments that shape childhood... and we believe kids deserve stories that meet them where they are.

When I had to explain death to a child in my own life, it was a different time.
There was no internet. No smartphones. No YouTube or online parenting forums.

If you wanted help explaining something hard — like death — you had two choices: go to the library and search through encyclopedias, or find a chaplain or counselor. Books on grief for children weren’t just a click away. And honestly, most folks didn’t know how to talk about it. It was awkward, uncomfortable… and often left unsaid.

That’s why I believe today is better. We know more. We talk more. And we have more resources than ever to help our children understand and process grief — without scaring them or leaving them in the dark.

When someone dies, our world shifts. As adults, we know what loss means. We’ve felt it before. We cry, we talk, we process. But little kids? They don’t have those tools yet.

They don’t always cry.
Sometimes they act out.
Or go quiet.
Or ask the same heartbreaking question again and again:
🗨️ “When is Grandma coming back?”

That’s why grief books just for kids matter so much.

My mom and dad divorced when I was around two years old. I don’t remember my father being around—not really. I didn’t see him again until I was ten, and even then, it was just a few moments in time until much later, when I made the effort to reconnect.
But it wasn’t just my story I saw—I watched it unfold over and over again in my own family. The custody schedules. The tension. The arguments over time. And the quiet hurt I saw in the kids’ eyes.

There’s a moment I think about often. A stretch of hallway—maybe 15 feet long—where I had to figure out how to tell a six-year-old that her mother was gone.

Her mom had been in a motorcycle accident. It was sudden. Tragic. And as a step-grandparent, I wasn't sure where I fit in at first. But when Child Protective Services called the hospital looking for her dad, it was me and my wife who went to get her. Her father was overseas—military—doing his duty far from home. He got on a plane. We got in the car.

The next day, her mother’s parents arrived. We were all together, sitting in my living room, trying to hold each other up. But one moment hung heavy in the air:
Who was going to tell the child?