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When my mother-in-law passed away, the emotion that washed over me wasn’t grief. It wasn’t sorrow, or even relief. It was something tangled — a mix of unease, confusion, and the quiet knowledge that our relationship had never been easy.
We were never close. She had always been cool, sometimes critical, and rarely kind. So when my husband pressed a small box into my hands after her memorial and whispered, “She wanted you to have this today,” I froze.
Inside the velvet box was a necklace — silver, with a teardrop-shaped pendant and a tiny sapphire glinting in the center. It wasn’t something I had ever seen her wear.
“Are you sure this is for me?” I asked.
He nodded. “She was specific. Said you should open it alone.”
That last word lingered in my mind. Alone.
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