At my father’s funeral, just as the priest’s voice filled the chapel, the tall wooden doors swung open. Heads turned. An elderly woman I had never seen before appeared, moving slowly down the aisle in a vintage wedding gown. It wasn’t theatrical, but real—lace sleeves, a high neckline, delicate gloves. Her hair was pinned neatly, her face lined with years but alive with sorrow and determination. At first, I thought she must have wandered into the wrong service. But then I looked at my mother. He

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