Tessa

I stand in front of the wall of dresses, my fingers hovering over the fabric as though the touch alone could make everything better.

As thought the beating of my chest would settle at the thought of making it through this.

But it doesn’t.

It won’t.

I swallow, my throat tight, and mutter to myself, “You can do this, Tessa… just pick a color.”

I try to focus on the task, trying to imagine what Hope would like, what would honor her.

My eyes drift over the soft pastels, the delicate folds, the gentle patterns, and my chest tightens with each passing second.

How am I supposed to dress...