One summer evening in 1965, my best friend’s mother corralled my father on our tiny Philadelphia neighborhood front porch. While it wasn’t unusual for neighbors to congregate on each other’s postage stamp-sized spaces, it was odd that “Aunt Lilly” took my father inside the house to talk.
As I learned later that night during a highly uncustomary father–daughter conversation, Lilly’s daughter, my best friend “Marsha,” was pregnant at age 15.
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