I’m named after my great-aunt Lillian, my maternal grandmother’s older sister. She was born in Paris, France, in 1938 and moved to Brooklyn, New York with her parents in 1939. From the pictures I’ve seen and stories I’ve heard, Aunt Lillian was a gem—intelligent, vivacious, and stubbornly determined. When she succumbed to breast cancer in 1979, her death left a void in the lives of her family and loved ones. My grandmother idealizes her; my mother mainly has childhood memories of her, a woman unreachable, frozen in time. And though I never met her, my mother and grandmother often point out our similarities. My grandmother mentions it, often with tears welling up in her eyes, at every graduation and brings it up each time we discuss my writing. “You know, you’re smart just like Lillian. She...

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