“Oooh, I like this one.” Aunt Daisy playfully waves a cheetah print vest. “Or this one.” Aunt Lily scoots out from the bottom of my closet with a tulle mint-green skirt. And ladies and gentlemen, behind me is a sword, a cannon blast, a shoulder to cry on, a stroke of hope—my mom. In a form-fitting black dress, long matte black nails, and dark rouge lipstick, Rose Calloway Cobalt stands pin-straight, her posture stiff and rigid. And cold. But she wields such deep love for me in her piercing yellow-green eyes.
