She told her grandfather she wanted to grow up to be a pilot or an astronaut.
She stood in Church and prayed that her mother was in heaven.
She vowed, one day, she would be President.
She wanted to share her hollow existence with another person.
She longed, suddenly and powerfully, to be a mom.
She wished he wasn't the father of her child.
She wished things were easier, that Jack could go to a school where they understood him.
He woke her sobbing, saying he wanted to die, and she held him, wishing she knew how to make a person whole and happy.
She wanted to finish her degree, but there wasn't enough for both of them.
She wished, tearfully, that she had been invited to her only child's wedding.
She wished her granddaughter didn't live three thousand miles away.
She wished she could get a straight answer, just once.
She said to the doctor no, no more chemo, closed her eyes, pressed on the drip, and wished it would all just end.
After three years of family debate, her tombstone was delivered. According to her final wishes, it read:
Ingrid Harrison. 1956-2015.
First Woman President