“Your sister-in-law really likes my ring.”
I froze.
“Mom—”
“I’m sick, Claire. I’m not deaf.”
I laughed despite myself.
Then she pointed weakly toward her dresser.
“Bottom drawer.”
Inside was a black velvet jewelry box.
When I brought it to her, she opened it.
Instead of the diamond ring, there was a cheap plastic ring with a cloudy fake stone.
I stared at her.
Mom smiled.
“Where did you get that?”
“Your cousin’s little girl left it here.”
Then I noticed a folded note beneath it.
“What’s this?”
“I wrote it a few weeks ago, before my hands started shaking too badly.”
She closed the box.
“If Camille ever becomes bold enough to demand my ring, give her this.”
“Mom.”
“I’m serious.”
Then she reached beneath her pillow and pulled out a second, older box.
Inside was the real diamond ring.
My throat tightened.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t need to give me this now.”
“I want to.”
She put the box into my hands.
“This isn’t payment for taking care of me, and it isn’t because I love you more than Ethan.”
She paused to catch her breath.
“My mother gave it to me because she knew I would look at it and remember her. I want you to have it for the same reason.”
Tears filled my eyes.
Mom closed my fingers around the box.
“Keep it safe.”
I promised I would.
A few weeks later, she could barely speak.
Then one morning, she died with me sitting beside her.
Ethan arrived shortly afterward.
The moment he saw her, he broke down.
I held him while he cried, and for a little while we weren’t adults with jobs, marriages, and unresolved resentment.
We were simply 2 children who had lost their mother.
I hoped grief might remind everyone what actually mattered.
I was wrong about Camille.
After the funeral, family and close friends gathered at Mom’s house.
Everything hurt to look at.
Her slippers were still beside the bed. Her glasses were on the kitchen counter. A half-used bottle of lavender lotion sat beside the sofa.
