Unfortunately, reality does not always hold onto its guarantees.
An illness claimed her life when I was twelve years old. During one month, she was putting me to sleep; by the following month, she lacked the strength to even get up. A short time later, she passed away.
On the afternoon she died, it seemed as though my entire universe split in half. My father, Owen, attempted to stay strong for the two of us, yet I noticed how he gazed at her empty spot on the mattress each day. We were merely getting by, rather than truly enjoying life.
Following her burial service, her formal outfit turned into my main source of comfort. I hid it deep inside the rear of my wardrobe. Occasionally, whenever the evenings felt excessively dark and silent, I would open the clothing cover slightly just to feel the smooth fabric and imagine she was standing right beside me.
That item was much more than simple cloth. It represented her tone, her scent, and the manner in which she hummed out of tune while making breakfast on the weekends. Putting it on for the dance had nothing to do with looking trendy; it was completely about maintaining a part of her spirit.
Following that period, Kendall entered our lives.
