Inside lay my mother’s silver pearl locket, resting on a bed of faded yellow silk that smelled faintly of cedar and dried roses. The silver was slightly tarnished around the edges, but the tiny pearl in the center still held its quiet luster.
I lifted the locket by its delicate chain, letting it drape across my palm. It felt cold against my skin, a physical weight that connected me to three generations of women who had survived worse than a canceled invitation.
I had intended to give it to Lauren on the morning of her wedding, just as my mother had given it to me on mine.
From the kitchen cabinet, I brought out a small black velvet box that once held a pair of pearl earrings I had sold years ago to pay for Lauren’s college textbooks. I lined the bottom with a fresh tissue and set the locket inside, closing the lid with a soft snap.
The box was small enough to fit inside my apron pocket, but the weight of it felt like a stone as I walked back to the kitchen.
