By the time prom season arrived, I thought I understood exactly how grief worked. I thought it moved in recognizable waves. I thought it announced itself in obvious ways—the sleepless nights, the sudden tears in grocery store aisles, the way silence could still hit like a physical thing if I walked past my husband’s empty side of the bed too quickly. I thought I understood the shape of it because for eleven months I had been living inside it. I was wrong. My daughter Lisa was supposed to go to prom in a sunset-colored silk dress. Instead, she walked onto...
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