Every Wednesday at 11:30, I'd meet my daughter Julie-Marie for lunch at a Greek restaurant across the street from the Murrah building. She spoke five languages and translated Spanish for the Social Security office there. But on Wednesday, April 19, 1995, I never got to have lunch with Julie-Marie. I miss her so--her smile, her kindness. She was only 23.
Every day for a year, I'd come by the fence that encircles the footprint of the Murrah building, where it once stood, where she died. And during the first few months after the bombing, I was not opposed to the death...
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