Cancer stole her when I was twelve. After the funeral, the dress became what I touched when the house felt too quiet: a zipper half-open in the dark, the cool slide of satin under my fingertips, the imagined scent of her Sunday pancakes and off-key humming. It wasn’t fashion. It was the last conversation we hadn’t finished.

Then my dad remarried. Stephanie arrived with white leather furniture, sharp heels, and opinions that knocked pictures off walls. The angels from our mantel vanished in a week, the family photo gallery came down the next, and the oak table where we carved pumpkins ended up on the curb. “Refreshing the space,” she said brightly, as if history were a throw pillow you swap out seasonally. Dad asked me to be