The house felt too big without my mother’s humming or the familiar clatter of her keys. It was a hollow shell, filled only with the rhythmic ticking of the hallway clock and the heavy thrum of my own pulse.

I stood in front of my full-length mirror, the deep red dress fitting me as if the crimson fabric had been molded specifically to my bare skin. Amy had been right about everything—the color, the sharp cut, the way it somehow transformed me from an invisible ghost into a visible, breathing woman with nothing but confidence and stitch-work.

I looked like a completely different person. Someone who belonged at wild parties....