That night, I remember my mom preparing dinner as I practiced my breakdancing moves. It was the 80s, and Michael Jackson mania had come to suburban Minnesota. While my mom stirred spaghetti sauce, I spun on my back and moonwalked in socks across our kitchen’s linoleum floor. Nearby rested our golden retriever, Taffy.
The night felt calm. Warm. Joyful. Best yet, it felt normal.
At one point, I looked up at her and asked: Mom, if you were granted three wishes, what would you wish for?