Heat rushed to my face. “Mom died 28 days ago.”
“I know this seems sudden…”
“Sudden? It seems INSANE. Linda was Mom’s best friend. You’re Mom’s husband…”
“Was her husband,” he corrected.
Ice flooded my chest.
I pointed at the door. “Get out.”
“You’re upset, I understand…”
“I said, GET OUT.”
He left. I stood there shaking as the coffeemaker beeped, announcing that the coffee was ready.
Paul and Linda married 32 days after my mother’s death.
The photos appeared online within hours—professionally shot, perfectly filtered, captions filled with hashtags about “new beginnings” and “finding light in darkness.” Linda wore a champagne-colored lace dress. The flowers were peonies—my mother’s favorite.
That was when I remembered my mother’s necklace: the heavy gold chain with tiny diamonds, the one she’d promised would be mine someday.
I stared at those photos until my eyes burned, then called Paul.
“Where’s Mom’s necklace?”
Silence.
“The gold one,” I pressed. “With the diamond clasp. The one she wore in every holiday photo. Where is it?”
“We had to make some decisions about the estate after the wedding.”
“Did you sell it?”
Another pause. That was answer enough.
“You sold my mother’s necklace?” I shouted. “The one she told me would be mine?”
“We needed funds for the trip after the wedding. It was just sitting in a drawer.”
“It was hers.”
“Does it matter now?”
I hung up.
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