The last thing my mother ever made was a suit.
She made it from my dad’s old police uniform, the one that had been hanging in her closet for eleven years, still pressed, still perfectly creased, like she was saving it for something she couldn’t yet name.
Turns out she was saving it for me.
The last thing my mother ever made was a suit.
My dad, Ben, was a police officer who died in the line of duty when I was six years old.
I don’t remember much about him, just the weight of his hand on top of my head and the way he used to call me “Little Superman.”