At home, I placed Mary’s pressed flower inside a small frame. Beneath it, I wrote the date: May 14, the day she chose the red dress and stole a yellow daisy from the hospital garden.
Aaron stood beside me while I hung the frame near a photograph of the twins at eight years old. They were missing teeth, leaning into each other, and smiling as if the world had never given them a reason to be afraid of losing anything.
For months, that photograph had felt like proof of what was gone. That night, it felt different. It still hurt to look at, but the pain no longer pushed the love out of the room.
Mary had been here. She had laughed. She had argued over pancakes and teased her brother about his clothes. She had chosen a red dress because she wanted to be seen. And on the day she could not attend her graduation, Aaron found a way to bring her into the auditorium anyway.
