I didn’t know that dress was the last thing she bought for herself. I didn’t know the price of my comfort had been quietly carved from her dreams. Standing in her empty room after the funeral, the dress lay waiting, folded as if she’d planned to wear it again. The velvet pouch in its pocket held a locket with our initials, warm from my shaking hands, and a note that rewrote everything I thought I understood. She had been working extra shifts, hiding overdue notices, choosing my future over her rest, her body, her joy. I had mistaken sacrifice for smallness, love for lack. Holding that dress, I felt the weight of every unasked question, every unoffered thank you. My apology came too late for her ears, but not, I hoped, for her memory. In finally seeing her, I began the work of becoming someone she hadn’t wasted herself on.
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