I had held that necklace in my hands the night my mother died and placed it inside her coffin myself.
“It’s vintage,” Claire said, touching the pendant when she noticed me staring. “Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” I replied. “Where did you get it?”
“My dad gave it to me. I’ve had it since I was little.”
There had never been a second necklace.
So how was it hanging from her neck?
I made it through dinner on autopilot. As soon as their car disappeared down the street, I went straight to the hallway closet and pulled down the old photo albums from the top shelf.
My mother wore that necklace in nearly every photograph from her adult life.
