My first real love happened when I was just 18.  I fell madly in love with a fiercly strong 21 year old black woman who was 1/4 Cherokee.  

Our story was not to be one with a happy ending.  Racial stress came in the form of white/native american bigotry from an older family member in her family.  Interracial love in the south in the '70s was tough enough, but I think we could have handled that.  We stayed together through KKK rallies in our neighborhood, forced integration (bussing) riots, and the daily dissaproving looks from seemingly everyone on the street.  Still, we loved each other above all else.

But when the final confrontation with her family came down, she was sent away to family 500 miles away, and I was never able to see her again.   

I only recently found out during her brother's deathbed confession that when she left, she was pregnant with our baby.  He'd done everthing he could do to keep us apart and ignorant of each other's lives.  Tragically, our daughter died at 5 months of age, and I never knew her, or about her.  It's been 38 years and I'm only now grieving for our loss.  My love passed away in 1999 from breast cancer, knowledge also withheld from me.  

Reading stores with happy outcomes somehow gives me some solace, although my heart still feels ripped in two, nearly 4 decades later.  They say time heals all wounds, but to me it only seems to make the void larger.  Filling the gap with positive stories of loving people overcoming bigotry and bias give me hope that my bi-racial daughter could have found love and been happy.