My daughter, Willa, is the center of my gravity. She has my late father’s eyes—a deep, soulful brown that turns liquid gold in the sunlight—and a heart so tender it bruises at the slightest touch. Willa is the kind of child who saves worms from the sidewalk after a rainstorm. She remembers the birthday of the crossing guard. She is shy, retreating behind my legs when strangers loom over her, but once she loves you, she loves with the ferocity of a lion.

And Willa adored her Aunt Tamson.