I tried to take comfort in that, but when I got to her house, I sat in her kitchen for two hours, unable to move, unsure of what to do next.
She had been the first person to love me without conditions. Losing her felt like losing gravity—like everything in my life might come undone without her holding it together.
A week after the funeral, I returned to pack her things.
I worked my way through the house until I reached her closet. At the very back, behind coats and a box of holiday decorations, I found the garment bag.
The dress was just as I remembered—ivory silk, lace at the neckline, pearl buttons trailing down the back. It still carried her faint scent.
I held it close for a long moment. Then I remembered my promise.
I was going to wear it. No matter what I had to do to make it fit.
I set up at her kitchen table with her old sewing kit and began carefully working on the lining. She had taught me how to handle delicate fabric, how to be patient with things that mattered.
About twenty minutes in, I felt something beneath the fabric—a small, firm bump near the bodice seam. At first, I thought it was part of the structure. But when I pressed it, it crinkled.
Like paper.