Paul, my stepfather, was there through it all. So was Linda, Mom’s best friend since college. They brought groceries, stayed overnight, and reminded me we were a team. I didn’t yet understand how alone Mom really was.
Four weeks after the funeral, Paul came to my apartment. Standing in my kitchen, he told me he and Linda had decided to get married. I stared at him, numb, and told him to leave.
Thirty-two days after Mom died, they were married. Photos flooded social media—soft lighting, captions about new beginnings. Linda wore peonies, Mom’s favorite flower.
That’s when I remembered the necklace. Heavy gold, tiny diamonds, worn in every holiday photo. Mom had promised it to me. When I asked Paul where it was, the silence told me everything.
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