There she was. My mother, twenty-five in one photo, laughing into the sun with her hair pinned back. My mother at forty, holding baby Will. My mother at sixty, standing by the Christmas tree with her arm around me.
In nearly every photo from her adult life, she wore the necklace.
The thin gold chain.
The oval pendant.
The deep green stone.
The engraved leaves.
I set the album under the brightest kitchen light and stared until my eyes burned.
The pendant in every photograph was identical to the one that had rested against Claire’s collarbone.
Identical down to the tiny hinge on the left side, barely visible unless you knew to look.
My eyes hadn’t been dumb at dinner.
My memory wasn’t playing tricks.
Something was wrong. Something real. Something toxic.
I looked at the clock. 10:05.
I picked up my phone.
Will had mentioned—casually, over dinner—that Claire’s dad was traveling, wouldn’t be back for two days. The normal part of me would’ve waited. Would’ve considered boundaries. Would’ve told myself not to stir trouble.
But the normal part of me had been shoved aside by the image of my mother’s coffin.
I couldn’t suffer two days.
Claire had given me her father’s number earlier, like it was nothing. Probably assuming I wanted to introduce myself before wedding talk got serious. Probably assuming I was one of those sweet, harmless moms who chatted about flowers and color palettes.
I let her think that.
My finger hovered over the call button, and my heart thudded like it was trying to stop me.
Then I pressed it.
The line rang twice.
He answered on the third ring.
“Hello?”
His voice was a man’s voice—middle-aged, controlled. Not friendly. Not unfriendly. Just… guarded.
“Hi,” I said, and forced my own voice into something pleasant. “Mr. Lawson? This is Maureen Parker. Claire had dinner with us tonight—she’s engaged to my son, Will.”
A pause. Just a beat too long.
“Oh,” he said. “Yes. Right.”
I didn’t like that pause. Not even a little.
I smiled anyway, as if he could hear it. “I just wanted to say how lovely she is. And—this might sound silly—but I noticed the necklace she was wearing. The green pendant. It’s stunning.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“It was a private purchase,” he said finally. “Years ago. I don’t really remember the stupid details.”
The words were too quick, too dismissive. Like he was swatting at a fly.
I kept my tone light. “I collect vintage jewelry, so it caught my eye. Do you remember who you bought it from?”
Silence.
Then, “Why do you ask?”
Because I buried it with my mother, you liar.
Because it should be under dirt and wood and grief.
Because it’s impossible.
But I didn’t say any of that.
“Just curious,” I told him. “It looked very similar to a piece my family owned once.”
A beat.
“I’m sure there are similar pieces out there,” he said. “I have to go.”
“Mr. Lawson—” I started.
He hung up before I could finish.
I stared at my phone like it had slapped me.
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