get older.”
Mom was crying now.
I laughed through my own tears.
Then I lifted the next layer.
Another dress.
Smaller.
Pale blue.
Mom made a sound I had never heard before.
She reached for it.
“My dress.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
Grandma nodded.
“Your mother wore that when she was two.”
Mom pressed the fabric to her mouth.
The dress was more than 60 years old.
Hand-smocked.
Tiny covered buttons down the back.
I looked at Grandma.
“You made both of these?”
“Yes.”
Then she pointed into the box.
“Keep going.”
Below Mom’s dress was something wrapped in tissue.
I opened it carefully.
A third dress.
Newer.
Cream-colored linen with tiny green leaves stitched along the hem.
It was unfinished.
One sleeve was attached.
The other wasn’t.
A row of pins held part of the collar in place.
I stopped breathing.
Grandma said, “That’s hers.”
I looked at
