On December 21, 1988, Pan Am Flight 103 took off from London's Heathrow Airport and exploded less than an hour later over Lockerbie, Scotland. All 259 passengers and crew members perished--as did 11 people on the ground--making it the deadliest terrorist disaster in British history. On board were 189 Americans, including 35 students in an overseas study program sponsored by Syracuse University, in Syracuse, New York.

Over the past seven years, attempts to apprehend the two bombing suspects, Abdel Basset al-Megrahi and Lamen Khalifa Fhimah, have been continually thwarted by Libyan leader Mu'ammar Gadhafi. In 1991, U.S. and British officials indicted Megrahi and Fhimah for planting a suitcase bomb on the plane, but Gadhafi refused to extradite the pair for trial. Recently, the U.S. and Britain offered to transport an entire Scottish court to the Netherlands, a neutral setting. As the Journal went to press, Gadhafi's initial response was positive, but negotiations were still under way.

The U.S. courts did take action against Pan Am. In 1992 the airline was found liable of willful misconduct for failing to meet such security regulations as matching luggage with passengers aboard the plane. Families who lost loved ones on Flight 103 filed lawsuits against Pan Am and ultimately accepted settlements. (The airline had already filed for bankruptcy and ceased operations.) Yet for many--including the following three women--the heartbreak was far from over. Below, their stories of love and loss.

Someone to Watch Over Me

Wendy Giebler Sefcik, 36, housewife Towaco, New Jersey

Husband: Steve, 39, writer/producer

Children: John, 5; T.J., 4; Matthew, 1

Killed on flight: First husband, William "J.R." Giebler, Jr., 29

J.R. is my guardian angel. I can feel him with me every day.

We'd been married just nine months at the time of the bombing. J.R. was one of the most incredible people I'd ever met. He was warm, loving and dynamic, with a personality larger than life.

We met on the Jersey shore, just after I graduated from college. He invited me for ice cream on the boardwalk, and then decided to try his luck at one of the game booths. "If I win you a prize, will you have dinner with me?" he asked. He won a doll on his first quarter. We had dinner, and I knew that night I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. We got married in March 1988.

After the wedding, we moved to London, where J.R. worked as a government- bond broker, and I was an administrative assistant for Smith Barney. That Christmas, we decided that I'd fly home early to visit my family before J.R. joined me.

The afternoon of his flight, my sister and I turned on the TV. On the screen, a newscaster was saying that Pan Am Flight 103 had disappeared from the radar over Lockerbie. My heart stood still, then pounded in my chest as he announced the plane had exploded and crashed. I fell to the floor, wailing.

I knew J.R. was dead. I hoped I was wrong, but in my heart, I felt it. We phoned Pan Am over and over for news. Despite the fact that they had a list of the plane's passengers, they wouldn't tell us anything. It wasn't until the next day that someone from the airline finally called to confirm that J.R. was on the flight and there were no survivors.

I can't describe the pain. And no one from the government or the airline seemed willing to help. Several weeks later, when I called the State Department hoping to recover J.R.'s wedding ring, the person who answered told me, "The man is dead; get on with it." I was stunned- -it was like a slap in the face. (Later, with the help of a congressman, the ring was returned to me.)

That first year after the bombing, I was in shock. I prayed to die so I could be with J.R. I mourned the children we'd never have together.

Many times I heard people say, "You're young; you'll marry again."

"No person can replace another," I answered.

I decided not to go back to London. I found a job in Haverstraw, New York, and also devoted myself to a group called Victims of Pan Am Flight 103. We lobbied in Washington to increase security at airports. We also tried to recover our loved ones' property and get answers to the questions surrounding their murders.

In 1990, I enrolled in law school, reasoning that having a law degree would help my lobbying efforts. At about that same time, I began working for Steve Sefcik, doing freelance video production.

Steve and I had a friendly business relationship. At first, I didn' t think of him romantically, but gradually things began to change.

"I don't know if you're ready to start dating anyone yet," he said to me one day. "But if you ever are, I'd like to be that person."

Over the next six months, our friendship grew into something more. But still, I had a difficult time letting go of J.R. When I was with Steve, I sometimes felt I was being unfaithful.

While others might have been frightened away by the ghost of a dead husband, Steve held on, giving me the time I needed. But finally, he told me, "If we're going to make this work, you have to stop being J.R.'s wife and become his widow."

I knew he was right.

I went for counseling, something I had been opposed to because I felt that no one could understand my loss. But my therapist not only empathized with me, she helped me reach my own decisions. I realized that I loved Steve and wanted to build a life with him. I knew that J.R. would have been happy for me.

Steve and I were married in 1992. The children I'd always dreamed of came quickly, three in four years.

Now, when I think of J.R., it is not with sadness, but with joy. When something wonderful happens, I wish I could share it with him. His death, and the fact that we never had a child together, is a dull pain now, but will always be with me.

After J.R. died, I tried to feel his presence. But I felt nothing. Now, I sense J.R. in my life every day. It's as if he watches over me. Along with his family and friends, I keep his memory alive in happy ways, like the ball field for disabled children in Bloomfield, New Jersey, that we raised money for and dedicated in his name.

My biggest disappointment is that I still have so few answers about those who murdered him. After all these years, I'd like to see not only the two men accused of putting the bomb on the plane, but those behind the plot, brought to justice.

As for Gadhafi, if I could talk to him, I'd say I feel sorry for him. He has so much hate in his heart. And I'd tell him that he didn' t beat me. I haven't let hate rule my life.

In Memory of Melina

Eleonor Hudson, 51, teacher Albany, New York

Husband, Paul, 51, attorney

Children: Stephen, 28; Paul Joseph, 19; David, 17

Killed on flight: Daughter, Melina, 16

There are two things I try never to think about: that my husband and I might have said no when our daughter, Melina, wanted to study in England for three months; and that I urged her to stay in Britain when she'd asked to come home a month early.

Melina was beautiful, smart and determined. She wanted to be a lawyer, like her father.

She would have been a good one.

When Melina went to England on a foreign-exchange program in August 1988, she was the first American girl to attend Exeter School, an exclusive British school. But from the day she arrived, Melina felt out of place. That November, I flew over for a visit, never dreaming it would be the last time I'd see my daughter.

Throughout my visit, Melina kept saying she wanted to come home. I convinced her to stay. Paul and I have always believed it's important to finish what you begin. I also wanted Melina to know that if she stuck it out, she'd make friends. In fact, during her final month in England, Melina was increasingly happy.

The last time I spoke to her was the day before the flight. I'd bought her a ticket to travel home on December 22, but her reservation hadn't been reconfirmed and the plane was full.

The only flight she could get on was Pan Am Flight 103 on December 21.

On that day, the telephone rang. It was the wife of the principal who had set up Melina's program in England. She asked to talk to Paul.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"There's a problem with one of the children," she answered.

She wouldn't tell me anything more, so I gave her Paul's number at work. I began to worry that something terrible had happened. Suddenly, Paul arrived home, looking pale and upset.

"Do we have some sort of problem?" I demanded.

"Melina's plane went down," he said, his voice full of grief.

I began to shake uncontrollably. No! No! I thought. But when I turned on the TV, a news report on the crash flashed on the screen. I saw the fuselage and the flames, heard the words "Pan Am Flight 103," and I knew.

"Melina's dead!" I cried, over and over. I felt as if someone had plunged a sword into my heart. Paul held me, and we sobbed together.

The hardest part was telling our sons that their sister was gone. We all hugged each other and cried.

Paul and his father left for Lockerbie that night. I felt I needed to stay home to comfort our sons and handle the funeral arrangements. I wanted Melina's funeral to be what her wedding would have been, a celebration of her life.

The day before her funeral, Paul called to say Melina's body had been identified. She'd been found in the rubble of what had been the backyard of a row house, beside the bodies of a man from California and a two-month-old infant from Detroit. I felt lucky that he'd be bringing our daughter home. So many other families were still waiting.

At the funeral, I draped the snowman blanket I'd bought Melina for Christmas over her casket. It was bright and cheerful, and I knew she would have loved it. Neither Paul nor I looked at our daughter' s body. We wanted to remember her as the beautiful, vibrant girl she' d been.

In the days and years that followed, Paul and I channeled our grief into finding answers about the bombing. We dedicated a room in his law office to Pan Am Flight 103 and turned it into an information center. I worked ten-hour days, compiling information from newspapers. Paul became one of the early leaders of Victims of Pan Am Flight 103. Every Saturday, we'd go to meetings with other family members.

Meanwhile, I withdrew from my sons. Looking back, I realize I felt betrayed. I'd loved Melina so much. What if the same thing happened to our sons? How could I ever bear it?

For six years, my sons didn't have a real mother. I'd fallen into a deep depression, and I knew I needed help. I went to two counselors who seemed so stunned by my story that they appeared powerless to advise me. Finally, during a physical exam, my doctor told me, "I' m not asking you, I'm begging you, to take these pills." They were antidepressants.

I've taken the medication, Paxil, on and off now for three years, I have begun to find peace, believing that wherever Melina is, she' s all right. That's so important to me. One day, Paul Joseph came home from parochial school and said, "We prayed today, and I asked everyone to pray for my sister." It meant so much that Melina hadn' t been forgotten.

Every year on her birthday, we go to a square near home and release sixteen pink balloons into the sky, plus one white balloon for every year since her death. We put a note inside each balloon that says, "On December 21, 1988, Melina Hudson died at the age of sixteen. We miss her very much." For the first six years, I cried as they drifted upward. Now I watch them fly away, and I remember my beautiful Melina.

A Family Tragedy

Barbara Richardson, 53, owns a barcode scanning firm with her husband, Brian, 53

Newport Beach, California

Children: Sloane Anne, 22; Seth, 18; David, 16

Killed on flight: Mother, Anne Gorgacz, 76; sisters Loretta Gorgacz, 47, and Linda Gordon, 38

I'll never forget the moment I heard the news. I was Christmas shopping when I walked past the store's electronics department. The TV screens were displaying a simulation of a plane exploding. I stopped and stared as I heard the reporter say, "Pan Am Flight 103 disappeared over Scotland this afternoon." I rushed to my car. I don't even remember driving to my friend Barbara's house.

"They're dead," I whispered, when she opened the door.

My mother and my two sisters, Loretta and Linda, were gone. I had lost my family.

The four of us had been so close. (My father had died of lung cancer in 1965 at fifty-two.) Mom was bright, vibrant and spontaneous. She' d say, "Let's do something fun," and we'd end up at a movie at ten o'clock at night.

Loretta, my oldest sister, lived with Mom in New Castle, Pennsylvania. She was truly remarkable. Born with a mild form of cerebral palsy, she suffered from tremors in her hands. She couldn't write, but she had a quick mind. Despite her handicap, she had worked for thirteen years for a luggage manufacturer.

Linda was the true businesswoman in the family. She was working in London for J.G. Hook clothing manufacturer.

Christmas was always a special time for our family. After my husband and I moved to California, Mom, Loretta and Linda usually traveled to spend the holidays with us. Mom would bake, and the entire house would fill with the aroma of her special cookies.

But this year, Linda was in London, and Mom and Loretta decided to spend the holidays there with her. It was to be their great adventure.

But while they were in England, Mom tripped and fell. She had recently had knee-replacement surgery, and the fall reinjured her knee. Since her insurance didn't cover treatment overseas, she had to return home immediately for surgery. Mom needed help on the plane and Loretta wasn't physically able to care for her, so Linda decided to return with them. I had a feeling of uneasiness about the whole thing.

Their bodies were found on Christmas Eve. The following week, we traveled to Pennsylvania to bury them. I was numb with grief.

In the months and years that followed, it was difficult for me to come to terms with the extent of the tragedy. Losing my mother and sisters was like losing a vital connection with life. No one can ever know me the way they did. I especially miss the little things, like walking with my mom on the pier at night, or recounting something funny to Linda and Loretta.

What saved me from despair were my husband and children and my friends. Brian and our kids were grieving too, and we gave each other comfort. My daughter Sloane reminds me of Linda. She has her aunt's determination to succeed. And for years, my friends invited us to their homes for Christmas.

Our family has such fond memories of my mother and sisters. Mom, Loretta and Linda will always be part of our lives. And at Christmastime, my kids say, "Boy, I wish Nana was here making her cookies."

I don't think of Pan Am Flight 103 every day anymore. But at night, I sometimes look up at the stars. I wonder what my family knew in those final moments, and if they were frightened. I've asked doctors, and they tell me that in an explosion, a plane instantly loses pressurization and that at such high altitudes, those on board lose consciousness. If so, Mom, Linda and Loretta wouldn't have felt the explosion, the plane falling, the impact as they hit the ground. I pray it's true.