Her favorite thing in the whole world had been a red dress her grandmother had hand-sewn for her fifth Christmas.

Lily had worn it everywhere—to the grocery store, to the park, and even to bed when we weren’t looking.

When she grew too weak to walk, she would hold the red fabric against her cheek, smiling because it made her feel strong, bright, and impossible to overlook.

On the night before she passed away, five-year-old Julian had held his sister’s small hand.

I remembered him leaning over her hospital bed, whispering secret promises children make when they don’t yet understand how permanent goodbye can be.

I had been too consumed by grief to listen closely to what my five-year-old son was promising his twin.