I was happily married and more than 20-weeks pregnant with a baby I wanted more than anything. So why was I sitting in a Dallas abortion clinic?

On my 8th fatherless Father's Day, my dad found a way to send me a handwritten message from the grave.

Memories of her valor, grace, and sense of self spurred me on during a campaign filled with racism and sexism.

Since my daughter was born, time has somersaulted, raced, oozed — giving me new perspective on the few years I had with my own mother.

Two years after my husband's death, good days have finally returned — and so have bad dreams.

This is what I wish my friends knew when my parents died.

Around a table full of widow-baked cookies, I absorbed the most profound of all death clichés, and I was done.