I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, my feet meeting the cold hardwood. My knees trembled as I walked to the kitchen, the silence of the pre-dawn house pressing against my ears. I poured a glass of water, my hands shaking so badly the liquid sloshed over the rim. I sat at the small breakfast table, dropped my head into my hands, and closed my eyes.

And there he was again. My father.

He wasn’t the frail, sickness-ravaged man he had been at the end. He was the Titan of my childhood—broad-shouldered, stern-faced, wearing the gray wool sweater I had knitted for his sixtieth birthday. He stood in the doorway of my mind, his eyes piercing through the haze of sleep.

“Liv,” he said. His voice wasn’t a whisper; it was a command. “Don’t wear the dress from your husband. You hear me? Don’t wear that dress.”

He repeated it three times, his gaze never wavering, before dissolving into the shadows.

I opened my eyes, staring at the microwave clock blinking 5:00 AM. Don’t wear the dress. It was absurd. It was just a dream, born of stress and the milestone birthday looming over me like a storm cloud. Tomorrow, I would be fifty. Half a century.