A Brief Tale of Love: My Encounter with an Orange Wig

A Rare Opportunity

During a visit to my father in New Hampshire, who had recently experienced a stroke, my oldest child and I had a precious chance to reconnect. After a long round trip car journey from Massachusetts, I reached out to say goodbye. In that moment, my child revealed some incredible news. “You know how you have two sons?” my child asked, observing my reaction. “Well, now you have a daughter and a son.” Confusion and questions filled my mind, but I knew there was only one response that truly mattered. I embraced my daughter tightly, addressing her by her new name, Katy. — Linda Button

A Symbolic Moment at Sea

I carry my late husband’s ashes with me wherever I go. Rene was not only my true love but also my partner in life. After his passing, my fellow nurses convinced me to join NurseCon, a cruise where 3,000 nurses gather for enjoyment and education. On the final night, we had a “Glow” party with vibrant laser lights and neon colors. I wore an orange wig and decided to sprinkle some of Rene’s ashes into the ocean. The next morning, I woke up to a text from a friend who had dreamt of Rene surrounded by lights and a multitude of people. She conveyed that he appeared happy. — Laurie Beauchemin

Valuable Lessons from My Father

It was a Wednesday evening during dinner when the phone rang. It was my father, Leo. Without any preamble, he apologized, saying, “I am sorry for anything I might have done.” I reassured him, saying, “It’s okay.” We then proceeded to discuss mundane topics such as the weather and what I was making for dinner. When we said goodbye, we never mentioned that conversation again. I’m uncertain of what prompted his call, but one thing is clear: my father taught me to drive without a license, smoke cigarettes, and disregard my mother. However, that night, he also taught me the power of forgiveness. — Helene Rosenthal

Embracing Everything

In December, my husband and I diligently completed an enormous stack of adoption documents along with a video showcasing our strong potential as parents. “The waiting period can be anywhere from six months to two years,” the assigned social worker informed us. “So, perhaps plan a trip to Europe now.” While she meant it humorously, her underlying message was clear: make the most of this time while you have it. Six weeks later, we found ourselves in the NICU, cradling our tiny son, Hayes. There were no baby showers, no nursery preparations, and no trip to Europe. Yet, in our arms, we held everything we could have ever wanted. — Amy Pengra Button