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.
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