Catherine Gigante-Brown

"Sometimes David wore his hair spiked like a cockscomb. Others, he wore it feathery like a baby chick. He wore his Mohawk to summer camp (exchanging encouraging head chucks with another older camper who sported one, too) and even to Vacation Bible School—no judgment there."

I sat obediently in her chair atop four ancient copies of the Yellow Pages. Crossing my fingers, I prayed Catholic schoolgirl prayers.

"Bring over a meal—and leave. Breakfast, lunch or dinner, from soup to nuts. And coffee. Plenty of coffee."

I saw my present mother-in-law in a whole new light the first time she held my newborn son.

I realized my father was from a generation that never said those three little words. He was saying he loved me without them. But I didn't realize it then.

I’m boycotting you until you start recognizing breast cancer survivors like me by carrying mastectomy bras.

If the odds of getting cancer are like Powerball, why couldn't I be a scratch-off millionaire?

My husband and I agreed: raising a child with an independent spirit who made decisions for himself was a good thing.

Were you going to run into that cute guy John Williams on the way home? Would you see Anne Marie by the lockers and sort out what to do for the weekend? It was hit-or-miss, and that was the beauty of it. The breath-holding chance of it all. Now, our kids’ friends are as close as a keyboard stroke away. It’s too easy.

herbalist. shiatsu practitioner. healer.