On the worst night, when our 1-pound daughter was fading in the darkness of her incubator, my husband opened a book and began to read aloud.

"Chapter One: The Boy Who Lived."

He needed to say those words. I thought it was strange that he’d chosen the first book in a seven-volume series, a series that totals more than 4,000 pages, for a little girl who might not survive the night.

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Dogwood Forest, a senior living community in Georgia, wanted to lend a helping hand to local families who needed it.

Nearby Northside Hospital Atlanta needed caps for premature babies staying in its neonatal intensive care unit (NICU). Oftentimes, premature babies struggle to stay warm, so they're kept in incubators with a comfy hat fitted on their heads. These caps are important.

The residents at Dogwood had been happy to help fill the little hat void, knitting dozens of hats for the NICU. And Ed Moseley, an 86-year-old who thought the initiative would keep "the old people out of trouble" was one of them.

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Ask anyone who has lost a loved one — grief creeps up at the most random times.

It doesn’t matter how many months or years it has been, all it takes is one second for those memories and heartache to rush back. For me, all it took was an awkward moment to remind me that grief never goes away.

I was recently at a routine appointment. As the woman walked into the room, she smiled and said, “How are the kids?” I gave her a puzzled look, wondering if I heard her correctly. As a mother of one surviving triplet, I’m not used to hearing the plural form of “kid.” She repeated herself and that’s when I realized — she didn’t know that two of my children died.

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