I held that little dress for a long moment.

It was soft, and beautiful, and it weighed three generations of trauma.

And then I drove it to the hospital’s charity closet, where it will eventually dress a baby whose grandmother’s love carries no dress code.

Here’s what I know now, one year out.

Sometimes you have to grieve a mother who is still very much alive.

And breaking the cycle doesn’t feel like a triumphant victory.