Every morning, she would come down the stairs, opening the curtains to let the sun in. Sometimes, she would pour herself a cup of coffee and sit with my brother and me while we ate Captain Crunch. Other times, she would go back up the stairs and we wouldn’t see her again until Dad came home at night. My favorite days were the ones where she came downstairs wearing her sunflower dress, because I knew that meant we would have a good day.

Back then, we had a small garden out back where now there is only grass to be mowed. My brother and I would help her pull up the weeds, and she would pretend not to notice when we took a break to eat the wild strawberries. I can still picture her in that sunflower dress with her sun-bleached hair, standing proudly next to the corn stalks. She had the softest smile.

A steady rain kept us inside for days. One rainy morning, I came downstairs to see Dad with his arms around her. She was crying. Then, on a morning in late July, she did not come down the stairs at all. My brother and I looked at each other, confused by the darkness. I shrugged at him and grabbed our cereal bowls from the cupboard. Maybe she was sleeping late. She would come down eventually. But she didn’t. Later, we watched as Dad planted sunflowers at the edge of the garden.

Late August. We still pulled at the weeds, but it didn’t matter as much now that she had stopped coming outside with us. The sunflowers rose joyfully, eventually blocking the rest of the overgrown garden. The curtains stayed closed.

Then one day, we heard her come downstairs. She pulled open the curtains, the light driving in as she poured herself a cup of coffee. Happily, we regarded her over our poised spoons. Forcefully, she smiled at us.

After that summer, she never missed another morning of letting the sunlight in. But we never did see that sunflower dress again.