I found out in sixth grade. I was supposed to go to a friend's house after school, but during lunch period, she remembered it was her parents' wedding anniversary. I'd have to come over another afternoon. I understood. It was the divorce decade of 80's Manhattan; we were two of the few kids in our class who even lived with both of our parents. So an anniversary wasn't something that should pass without notice. And it got me thinking: why was it that I never made my parents an anniversary card?

My family was close. Most days, we ate dinner together at 4:30 in the afternoon because my dad's shift ended at 4. On weekends, the four of us -- my parents, my younger brother and I -- would ride our bikes through our neighborhood like some street gang pedaling in unison to jam sessions in Washington Square Park. But we never celebrated my parents' anniversary. After school, I asked my mom why. A little pink in the cheeks, she shot back that they had never been married.

To say that my parents were unconventional is an understatement. They met in the late 60's, when they were New York City cabdrivers and worked out of the same garage. My dad was black, from a rough part of Chicago and 14 years older. She was white, Jewish, from a tiny town in Virginia and living on her own for the first time. The story goes that one day in the garage, my dad asked my mom out for coffee. My mom replied that she didn't drink coffee. From there, the simple mating ritual deteriorated into an argument over whether the offer was limited to just coffee or could also include tea or even conversation. Within 14 seconds, my mother says, she was in love, and within 16 seconds, they were fighting. It was a pattern that never stopped.

They did not marry because she didn't want to. It was completely unnecessary and too conventional. If you loved someone as deeply as she loved my father, there was no reason to limit that love with legal binds. It wasn't that my mom didn't want a wedding. If that had been the case, they could have gone to City Hall, as most of their friends had. She didn't want a marriage. Without the piece of paper, she felt, their connection was pure, limitless and unscripted.

Through the years, I've reacted differently to my parents' decision. During college, when I left the city and mingled in much more traditional circles, I was proud of their nonconformity and would tell acquaintances that they had never been hitched. More recently, as a black woman surrounded by a generation of unmarried parents dragging a community further into poverty and dysfunction, I don't bring it up as much.

Almost five years ago, I married. You can see my parents' shock on the wedding video. I purposely kept my mom in the dark about the details of my wedding day, because the experience would be a first for both of us, and I wanted her to be surprised. I think she appreciated the gift. When I took my fiancé -- instead of her -- shopping for bridal gowns with me, the uptight salespeople freaked, but not my mother.

In the end, it took death to part my parents. When my dad went suddenly three years ago, they had been together 30 years. It was a lifetime more than many of us get with people we vow to love forever. Without a marriage certificate though, my mother wasn't my father's next of kin under the law. As my father's oldest child, it was my say that counted. Every time I signed another document, it felt as if I were further erasing my mom's role in my dad's life. Or at least helping society to.

My dad, an Army vet, had a formal military burial. After taps was played, soldiers folded the flag draped on my father's coffin and presented it to the family. Actually, they handed the flag to me. I didn't want to take it. It should have been presented to my mother, whose lap was empty. But she was not his wife, so the military refused. The idealistic bubble my mom had created for their love collapsed when it rubbed against the real world. No one cared about our weekend bike rides.

My mom, my brother and I rode home from the funeral in silence. In a room full of friends and family who had gathered at the house, my mom whispered to me that her only regret was that she never married my dad. If she had it to do over again, she would have. We hadn't spoken about the fact that they weren't married since that day after school when I was 11.

My mother's remorse is much larger than flags or funerals. I understand that now. She had believed the world could see the love and commitment that she and my dad shared. But what she didn't grasp sooner is that when you are lucky enough to find a love as strong as she found, you show it off to the world proudly. Because in the end, regretfully, the world couldn't see what they shared. Now, when I look at my wedding band, I can't help thinking of my parents and what they gave up because they thought their hearts were all that mattered.

Cora Daniels is a writer at Fortune magazine and the author of "Black Power Inc.: The New Voice of Success," to be published by John Wiley & Sons this month.