I was six when the world dimmed. My mother—her scent a mix of lavender and old books—was gone, leaving a silence that no sound could fill. My father, quiet and steadfast, did his best to raise me, but the house always felt like a shrine to things we didn’t speak about. The most precious item was hidden in the cedar closet: a garment bag holding my mother’s prom dress. It was a 1990s masterpiece—midnight blue silk adorned with hand-stitched beads that caught the light like tiny stars. I grew up tracing the fabric through the plastic, imagining her twirling with…
