Three months after cancer took my husband, my twelve-year-old daughter, Letty, was still learning how to live without her father. One evening, I found long blond strands scattered across the bathroom floor. Letty stood before the mirror with her beautiful hair cut unevenly to her shoulders. Before I could react, she held out the missing hair, carefully tied with a ribbon. She explained that a classmate named Millie had lost her hair during cancer treatment and had been teased at school. Remembering what her father had endured, Letty wanted her hair used to help make a wig.
I hugged her and told her how proud her dad would have been. After arranging for her donation to be properly handled, Letty returned to school excited about helping Millie. But the next morning, my phone rang. The principal told me to come immediately. His tense voice made my stomach drop. When I arrived, he hurried me toward his office. I opened the door—and froze at what was waiting inside.
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