The day Mama died, the dish towel was still hanging on the oven door, folded neat like always. Not the fancy kind — no embroidery, no bright colors. Just a soft, faded cotton square with a thin red stripe running down one side, worn to a whisper over the years. We never thought much of it growing up. It was just there. Always there. We were the kind of family that ate dinner at five, every day, no exceptions. Meatloaf on Mondays, chicken and dumplings on Thursdays, and the Lord help you if you w