Most of the girls I knew growing up fantasized about their dream weddings. My younger sister Ariana dreamed of soft pastels and virginal white, despite being anything but. Years of ballet meant she knew the exact song and dance she’d bring our papà out for, and she’d look incredible doing it. Even Stella—the youngest and smartest Ricci daughter—had the menu scribbled down on a piece of paper, using it as a bookmark for her textbooks. I planned my funeral. Up until today, my vision of a marble casket and bouquets of dahlias and lilies felt like little more than a pipe dream. A delusion I’d
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