It is Mother’s fifty-fifth, I said. I bought the gift weeks ago.
I pointed toward the sideboard, where the small velvet box containing the vintage sapphire brooch sat.
The sapphire was a pale, clear blue, set in silver filigree that had survived ninety years of changing fashions.
Erin picked up her wine glass, the red liquid catching the low light of the kitchen pendant.
She had been my best friend since we were fourteen, and she had witnessed every major family blowout.
She knew the silent treatment Melissa used, and she knew the way my mother always managed to make it my fault.
It feels like desperate money, Erin said. Your mother probably spent half her monthly budget on these just to impress the ladies at her bridge club.
I set my glass down, the condensation leaving a ring on the granite counter.
Erin walked over to the sideboard and opened the navy velvet box.
She held it up, letting the light catch the deep blue stone.
