Of the 430 women, most have children who were shot to death. Many cases never have been solved.

For 16 years, Williams has been a presence at crime scenes, funerals and court appearances. With an empathy that draws grieving families, politicians and law enforcement officers to her, she listens. She calls that her most important job.

Williams has cultivated a community of broken families, curated their pain and redirected it toward advocating for a safer Palm Beach County.

In MAMA, Gilbert, Shayne’s mom, has found a second family, one that understands her hurt and is “willing to love me through it.”

The pain

“I’m just going to keep it short and simple,” said the commanding woman who began the circle of healing May 2. “Otherwise, my voice will fade away and I’ll just sob.”

Her name is Lena Ortiz: Her son was killed May 13, 1990, Mother’s Day, in what authorities ruled to be an accidental suicide. However, a neighbor told her the shooting was neither accidental nor self-inflicted.

Next was a grandmother, who lost two of her six grandchildren to gun violence. Her daughter, Tina Wilson-Leidinger, was there, too. Wilson-Leidinger’s son, Tavoris Wilson, was killed a week before Christmas 2014 around the corner from her Riviera Beach home. He was 29.

Kamisha Gibson is the 430th mother. Her son, Jervonte Gibson, was shot to death on the afternoon of March 20 in West Palm Beach. He was 24.

“People don’t understand. My hurt is different from theirs,” Gibson told the group. “I haven’t grieved yet. I’ve cried, I’ve hurt but I haven’t grieved.”

The women nod. They know. Something about the violence of their loved ones’ deaths makes their pain hurt differently.

“They don’t want to hear it no more,” said Jannifer Tucker, whose son was killed in 2007. “They don’t say it, but they think it. ‘You should be over it by now.’”

The women sigh. They know. They’ll never be over it.

For many, the pain is as raw as the day their child died, regardless of how many years it has been since the killing. Palm Beach County Victim Services’ 24-hour helpline fields calls from people often years removed from a crime, said program coordinator Susan Carlini.

The county’s victim advocates accompany law enforcement officers during death notifications, Carlini said.

“It’s almost surreal. You are literally meeting someone for the first time at the worst time of their lives,” she said.

They maintain their composure, though, and make the logistical side of death less daunting. They walk families through filing paperwork for victims’ compensation through the state, work with funeral homes and help families keep in touch with the State Attorney’s Office.

Also, Carlini said the advocates direct families to therapists in their offices, as well as to groups such as MAMA, where they can find support among women who understand.

On May 2, Wilson-Leidinger lamented that those responsible for her son’s death walk free. Most of the women around the table shared that feeling of injustice.

“They’re still out there shooting, killing people, and my son’s gone,” she said.

“We’re going to make some changes, baby,” Williams assured her.