"More than a stunning debut. It is the announcement of a bold new literary voice"
—Stephen Chbosky, author of The Perks of Being a Wallflower

I was only four years old when you passed, taken away by a heart attack. My only memory of you is blurred and creased, but I’ve managed to keep it safe for nearly eighteen years. I’m standing in the living room of your prefab house, wearing light blue cotton pajamas and grinning and dancing as little kids do. “She looks like an angel,” you say, not realizing that those five words will become the only words I remember you by.

There are so many stories of you, things that I have wrapped carefully and hidden away for when I need them. My uncle says that you used to live in a house in Verona—the house started out with a bare lawn, but you loved trees so much that by the time you moved out, it had become a forest. I told him that I wished I could have known you better, and his eyes were shining when he replied, “He wanted so much to see you kids grow up.”

My relatives tell me that my father inherited so much of you. My father, who used to take us to the planetarium at Christmas to see the Seasons of Light show. Who once left out a dish filled with water, so we could see how much would evaporate overnight. Who cares so much about his children, who lights up whenever he’s with us and laughs the loudest at old comedies and who is always trying to help us in any way that he can.

You were someone special, Victor. And I only wish you had been there to see your grandchildren become the people we are.