The locket hit the table like a ghost, and every fork in the restaurant seemed to stop midair. I’d come to this birthday dinner expecting another round of quiet judgment and loud wine, not the resurrection of the one object I’d sobbed over in a parking lot when hospice called. Twelve relatives watched, waiting for me to explode or collapse, as the stranger in the black apron began to speak my mother’s name and my mother’s last, impossible deci… Continues…
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