The phone rang before 6 a. m. , and I already knew something was wrong. Mothers can feel these things, especially when their child hasn’t come home.
Derek had left the night before to promote an event at a Caribbean restaurant in Orlando. That was his life—organizing, making people smile, being the life of every party. At 31, he was a father of four with a fifth on the way. He had a rap career under the name Antoine Miles, and he used his voice to preach against gun violence.
He’d lost too many friends to bullets. Just that week, two more. We didn’t know it yet, but he was about to become another name on that list. The call came from his girlfriend.
Derek never made it back to the apartment. He was found in the parking lot of our condo complex in Castleberry, shot multiple times. He died on the sidewalk on Caver Lane. How could this happen to him?
How could it happen to anyone? My son wasn’t a criminal. He wasn’t in a gang. He was a father coming home to his family.
He was a community activist who stood in front of cameras six years ago, after two of his friends were killed, and said, “It’s got to start somewhere, and it’s going to start with us. ”
Now he was gone. The days that followed were a blur. Friends and strangers filled parking lots to hold vigils.
Local news crews came. Reporters asked me questions I couldn’t answer. All I knew was that someone took my son from this earth, and there was no bringing him back. The new baby would never know his father.
My grandchildren would grow up without their dad. One child would never even meet him. People kept saying Derek was well-loved. That was true.
But I also knew the business he was in. He was a promoter who handled cash. He advertised his events all over social media. He posted flyers and told everyone exactly where he was going to be.
Someone watched him that night. Someone waited. The police started piecing together what happened. They found surveillance footage from a Home Depot near the restaurant where Derek worked that evening.
The video showed a white Infinity. It pulled into the parking lot, drove around, and sat there for about 40 minutes. When Derek left, that car left too. They followed him the whole way home.
Another camera caught the moment Derek’s Camaro turned into the complex. The headlights of the white car stayed close behind him. Then the video shows the same Infinity speeding away in the opposite direction minutes later, right around the time neighbors called 911 when they heard gunshots. At a press conference, the police chief stood at the podium and told reporters what they believed happened.
Derek parked his car. Two men confronted him. They wanted his money, and they wanted in his home. But Derek’s girlfriend and children were inside.
He didn’t run to them. He didn’t lead the men to his family. He ran the other way. He threw his keys as he fled—car keys, house keys, everything—so the men couldn’t get into the apartment.
He led them away from his children. He gave up his own safety to protect the people he loved. The chief said it plainly: Derek’s actions were heroic. Even when he was not carrying a weapon, even when he was cornered, he made a choice.
He tried to keep his family safe. Two suspects were identified. The first, a 21-year-old, was arrested near his home. The second, a 28-year-old with ties to Atlanta, turned himself in days later.
Both were charged with first-degree felony murder and attempted robbery with a firearm. One of them had a violent criminal history that went back years. I couldn’t stop thinking about how this person should have already been locked away. If he had been, my son might still be here.
Then came the day I saw him—the man who took my son’s life—for the first time, in person. I walked into the courtroom. My emotions were all over the place. I was calm on the outside, but in my head, I saw myself jumping over the gate, trying to get to him.
He should have been in prison back in 2021, for life. If that had happened, Derek would still be with us. I had to push that thought away. That night, I went home and let it all out.
I cried until I fell asleep. The next morning, my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Calls. Texts.
Messages of encouragement. People let me know I wasn’t going through this alone. And for that, I was grateful. We have a journey ahead of us.
We are preparing as best we can. We don’t post about our babies for sympathy or likes. We post to keep their memories alive. And I know my son was loved.
I know he is truly missed by everyone. He was buried beneath a dark granite headstone with his image and the words: “All Miles, no breaks. ” It was a nod to his music, to the name he performed under, to the way he lived his life, always moving forward. And now, I keep moving forward too.
For him. For my grandchildren. For the child who will never meet his father but will still carry his name.
