Chapter 20 - Grandma’s Locket
The silver locket stayed in my dresser for years after Jenna returned it.
I rarely wore it.
Every time I saw it, wedding memory came.
One day I opened.
Inside were tiny photographs.
Grandma young.
Grandpa in military uniform.
I had forgotten.
I wore it to hospice fundraiser at Cedar Hollow.
Not to reclaim from Kelsey.
Because it was mine.
A woman asked:
“Family heirloom?”
“Yes.”
“Beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
No story.
I did not owe every object its trauma biography.
That night, I sat by lake and understood how much of healing was simply letting objects become ordinary again.
Pillow.
Locket.
Garden.
House.
Not evidence forever.
Home.
I moved legal files from kitchen cabinet to attorney archive.
Kept digital copies.
Disposed duplicates.
Laura said:
“Big day.”
“It’s paper.”
“You’ve kept three copies of every invoice for four years.”
“Don’t judge.”
“I’m literally a lawyer.”
Fair.
The wooden box from wedding gift?
I had never gotten rid of it after it came back.
It sat in shed.
I opened.
Empty.
For years it symbolized my “lesson” to Kelsey.
Suddenly it felt stupid.
I donated it to local theater props department.
No ceremony.
May you like
The lawsuit was over.
I did not need the box.
