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			 Roig doesn't know if Adam Lanza, the 20-year-old shooter, ever 
			entered her classroom in Newtown, Connecticut, although she could 
			hear gunfire and terrified pleas from the hallway and adjacent 
			first-grade classroom. 
 			"For myself, I am so aware that roles could have so easily been 
			reversed," said Roig, 30, who has since married and now uses the 
			name Roig-DeBellis.
 			"I remember, in the days after, it was so hard to get out of bed," 
			she said, sitting on a sofa in her Greenwich, Connecticut home. "I 
			just walked around singing Amazing Grace just over and over and 
			over, because it was just so incredibly hard."
 			The December 14 tragedy at Sandy Hook, among the most deadly school 
			shootings in U.S. history, rocked this leafy, suburban town 70 miles 
			northeast of New York City. Coming just five months after a gunman 
			opened fire in a Colorado movie theater, killing 12, the murder of 
			20 6-and 7-year-olds forced a national reckoning about gun violence.
 			Lanza, a loner who appears to have had severe emotional problems, 
			used guns that were legally purchased by his mother, Nancy Lanza. He 
			killed her in her bed, then drove to the elementary school he had 
			once attended, shooting his way in just as the school day was 
			getting started. After the rampage, he shot himself. 			
			
			 
 			As the nation prepares to mark the first anniversary of the December 
			14 massacre, Newtown has asked the public to stay away.
 			For her part, Roig-DeBellis has planned a trip — a spa visit and 
			maybe a nice dinner — anything to turn her focus away from the 
			terror and excruciating sadness of that day.
 			"AN OPEN HEART"
 			The offices of Sandy Hook Promise, a parents group founded in the 
			weeks after the shootings, are located in downtown Newtown. Artwork 
			sent by children from across the country has been framed and mounted 
			on the walls there. Scattered on tables are pamphlets on foundations 
			set up by the families.
 			Seated at one of those tables, Mark Barden, who lost his son, 
			Daniel, gives a long pause when asked about forgiveness.
 			"I'm trying to approach every bit of this with an open heart and an 
			open mind," said Barden. "It's a work in progress."
 			Like many other Sandy Hook parents, Barden has kept up a punishing 
			schedule over the last year, traveling to Washington to meet with 
			lawmakers to support a gun law that stalled in the U.S. Senate, and 
			promoting the work of Sandy Hook Promise.
 			"Maybe it has saved me," he said of the group. "The way that Daniel 
			lived his short life, I know that he would have done a whole lot of 
			good. We take it very seriously now that it's our responsibility to 
			do that good work." 			
			
			 
 			
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			For Barden, a guitarist who often performs in town, every day is an 
			anniversary. The last haircut. The last swim team practice. The last 
			Thanksgiving.
 			"A lot of the memories are happy. But we're still so new at this. 
			It's still so early on that it's hard not to get caught up in the 
			grief," he said.
 			The parents of the children who died that day talk often about their 
			struggle to break through the feeling of helplessness. Parent 
			Together, an effort Sandy Hook Promise launched in November, aims to 
			show people, regardless of their politics, that gun violence can be 
			prevented.
 			"Nobody's pro gun violence. So, it's not like there's two sides to 
			this," Barden said.
 			"If we can save another family from going through what we are going 
			through, then I can feel good about that for the rest of my life," 
			Barden said.
 			HOLIDAY SHARING
 			When the shooting started last Dec. 14, Roig-DeBellis's class 
			was seated in a circle, sharing their holiday traditions.
 			"I got up, I closed the door, I turned the lights off and I turned 
			to my students and I said: 'We need to get into the bathroom — right 
			now,'" she said.
 			The bathroom was not more than 3 by 4 feet, too small to even 
			hold a sink. Children climbed onto the toilet, behind the toilet. 
			One perched on the toilet paper dispenser.
 			"They were hearing exactly what I was hearing. It was extremely 
			loud. It was extremely scary," she said.
 			Some 45 minutes later, when the police arrived, Roig-DeBellis would 
			not let them in. For days after, she was in a daze, unsure if she 
			was alive or dead. 			
			
			 
 			She ended up taking more than a year off from teaching, and has 
			devoted that time to Classes4Classes, a charity that facilitates 
			acts of kindness between groups of students across the country. She 
			plans to return to teaching this summer.
 			"What happened that day has nothing to do with being a teacher," she 
			said.
 			(Reporting By Edith Honan; editing by Gunna Dickson) 
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