you were supposed to get it after he died.”
“You said you didn’t promise him anything.”
“I didn’t.”
Daniel unfolded the tissue.
A single pink earring lay in his palm.
“He told me you were supposed to get it after he died.”
Cheap metal.
One fake stone was missing.
The hook bent slightly out of shape.
I knew it.
My hand closed around the back of the chair.
I stared at the earring.
“No.”
“What?”
“Where did he get that?” I asked.
I stared at the earring.
“Mom…”
“Where?”
Daniel crouched in front of me.
“He kept it.”
Tears flooded my eyes, stinging hot.
That earring had disappeared more than 30 years ago.
Before Daniel.
Before mortgages.
That earring had disappeared more than 30 years ago.
Before cancer medication lined our kitchen counter.
Before I became the person everybody called when something needed remembering.
I was 23.
Richard and I
