After my first year with my boyfriend, I was told to expect a decent christmas present—maybe a nice dinner or a cute jacket from like zara or berksha. So when he handed me what felt like a wrapped piece of paper, my mind became puzzled. With fake enthusiasm cued up, I unwrapped a two-pocket folder. Inside were official documents for a star he’d purchased for me—and named Muriel. That was the name given to my mother in a Moscow orphanage before she was adopted in the UK. and renamed Nicky. It’s also my middle name. My mother died when I was 9, and I’d spent a few embarrassing nights tearfully telling my boyfriend stories about her. Even though a piece of paper can’t bring her back, the night sky has felt different ever since—like she’s up there sparkling in all her eternal glory.