Her coffee mug, beside a half-read book. A pair of heels by the door. A passport, expired now, softened at the edges from too many stamps. A notebook filled with ideas, lists, and plans that had nowhere to be yet. Lipstick at the bottom of her purse. A Vespa sleeping in the garage, gathering dust and spider webs. Little pieces of the woman she was, before she became Mom. A life that feels both so far away and somehow still mine.