July 1st is the anniversary of my mother’s passing. Every year the details come flooding back—the look on my father’s face when he broke the news, the empty pit in my stomach that wouldn't go away.  ​My Dad did his best to raise us three kids, but he wasn't so attentive to my emotional needs. Just when my teen years hit hardest, a friend of his floated into my world like a fairy godmother. Her excitement about who I was startled me. I was so used to not being noticed, the attention felt awkward. But deep down I loved it, , and it began to change me . . .