The morning light filtered through the windows of Martha’s salon with the gentle insistence of autumn announcing itself, catching the silver strands in my hair as she worked her practiced magic with scissors and spray. Outside, the October leaves were beginning their annual performance—gold and crimson against a sky so impossibly blue it looked like something painted by an artist who’d never quite grasped the concept of subtlety. It was the kind of perfect fall day that poets write about and photographers chase, and it was the day my only daughter was getting married.

“Big day today, Sylvia?” Martha asked, her reflection meeting mine in the mirror with the warm familiarity of someone who’d been styling my hair for fifteen years, through gray roots and grief and everything in between.

“My daughter’s wedding,” I said, keeping my voice light and pleasant, the tone of a mother who was supposed to be overflowing with uncomplicated joy. “Finally.”