I buried my mother with her most precious heirloom 25 years ago. I was the one who placed it inside her coffin before we said goodbye. So imagine my face when my son’s fiancée walked into my home wearing that exact necklace, right down to the hidden hinge.
I’d been cooking since noon that day. Roast chicken, garlic potatoes, and my mother’s lemon pie from the handwritten recipe card I’d kept in the same drawer for 30 years.
When your only son calls to say he’s bringing the woman he wants to marry, you don’t order takeout. You make it mean something.
I wanted Claire to walk into a home that felt like love, and I had no idea what she was about to walk in wearing.
I wanted Claire to walk into a home that felt like love.
Will arrived first through the door, grinning the way he used to as a kid on Christmas morning. Claire came in right behind him. She was lovely.
I hugged them both, took their coats, and turned toward the kitchen to check the oven.
Then Claire slipped off her scarf, and I turned back.
The necklace was resting just below her collarbone. A thin gold chain with an oval pendant. A deep green stone in the center, framed by tiny engraved leaves so fine they looked like lace.
My hand found the edge of the counter behind me.
The necklace was resting just below her collarbone.
I knew that shade of green. I knew those carvings. I recognized the tiny hinge hidden along the left side of the pendant — the one that made it a locket.
I’d held that necklace in my hands on the last night of my mother’s life and placed it inside her coffin myself.
“It’s vintage,” Claire said, touching the pendant when she caught me staring. “Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” I managed. “Where did you get it?”
“My dad gave it to me. I’ve had it since I was little.”
There was no second necklace. There never had been.
So how was it around her neck?
