It was delicate lace trimmed with tiny seed pearls, slightly yellowed with age. The comb sewn into the top had loosened over the years, but it was still beautiful.
Whenever I unfolded it, I could almost convince myself I smelled her perfume.
So I wrapped it carefully in tissue paper and stored it safely in the top of my closet.
For nine years, nobody touched it.
Then my father married Regina.
At first, I genuinely tried to make things work.
I invited her to lunches.
Included her in family gatherings.
Bought birthday gifts.
Answered her calls.
I wanted peace.
But Regina never wanted peace.