By Stacey Patton
It was early November 2009. Steve, my biological father, was going to be dead before the end of the month. I was 420 miles away, bracing for his impending death and grieving. Not for him. But for the death of all my hopes, dreams and fantasies of what could have been.

By Lisa W. Rosenberg
When my father laughed, he’d show his wide, white teeth, wrinkle his broad nose and let loose. I remember the sound of it, rich and soulful, with music in the background—Motown and jazz that he’d play when my parents threw parties. I remember the colors of those big 1970s bashes: bold red and turquoise plaids leaping from scratchy synthetics; paisleys in dizzying shades of orange, pink and purple.

By The Editors
Our call for writings on fathers and fatherhood yielded wise, wonderful and genuinely moving tributes to some of the most thought-provoking and moving facets of having, and sometimes being, a dad.