Sylvia Moy grew up hearing her father tell her mother: I was made to love you.

She was one of nine children in a house that made music before it had instruments. Pots and pans. Then piano.

Her father rode freight trains north from the South. Her mother came up from Arkansas. They built a life from precision and love.

She took her talent to New York City, was told she'd never be a songwriter.

She came home to Detroit. While singing at the Caucus Club in 1963, two men from Motown walked in. 

She auditioned at Hitsville. Used the same songs New York City had rejected. The room fell quiet.

She was offered three contracts. Recording. Management. Songwriting.

We'll get to you as a singer, they said. In the meantime, these artists have no material.

She said OK.

I Was Made to Love Her. Uptight. My Cherie Amour. It Takes Two. This Old Heart of Mine.

The records carried other producers’ names.

In a 1965 meeting, a 15-year-old boy's name came up. His voice had changed. He hadn't had a hit in three years. The label was moving on.

She went to the studio after the meeting and asked him to play everything he had.

Nothing landed.

When she was almost to the door, he played one more song.

She took it home. Wrote a love story. Came back with a finished song and no braille copy. So she stood at the glass and sang the words line by line into his headphones.

I was made to love her 

Worship and adore her

Hey, hey, hey

Image Credit: Zuma Press