My fingers tightened around the cardboard.
“What did you say?”
Daniel looked around.
“Can we go somewhere private?”
“Danny…”
“Please, Mom.”
Something in his face stopped me.
I handed the box back.
“Put them anywhere.”
Richard’s sister blinked.
I didn’t care.
Daniel led me into a small room behind the chapel.
The moment the door closed, I pointed at the dress.
“Start explaining.”
He looked down at himself.
“I know how it looks.”
“I sincerely doubt that, Danny.”
A tiny, miserable laugh escaped him.
Then he reached into the pocket.
“Mom, Dad wanted you to have something.”
My anger vanished.
Daniel pulled out a small object wrapped in white tissue.
“He told me you were supposed to get it after he died.”
“You said you didn’t promise him anything.”
“I didn’t.”
Daniel unfolded the tissue.
A single pink earring lay in his palm.
Cheap metal.
One fake stone was missing.
The hook bent slightly out of shape.
I knew it.
My hand closed around the back of the chair.
I stared at the earring.
“No.”
“What?”
“Where did he get that?” I asked.
“Mom…”
“Where?”
Daniel crouched in front of me.
“He kept it.”
Tears flooded my eyes, stinging hot.
That earring had disappeared more than 30 years ago.
Before Daniel.
Before mortgages.
Before cancer medication lined our kitchen counter.
Before I became the person everybody called when something needed remembering.
I was 23.
Richard and I were dating.
I’d worn that pink dress to a cheap little restaurant where the owner offered free dessert to anyone brave enough to dance when an old song came on.
Richard refused.
Naturally, I stood up.
“Tisha, sit down.”
“Absolutely not.”
“There are people eating.”
“They’ll survive.”
I danced between tables badly enough to make strangers clap.
Richard covered his face.
Later, outside, he tugged at my dress.
“That thing is dangerous.”
“The dress?”
“The woman in it.”
I laughed.
“Jealous because I wear pink better than you.”
Somewhere between the restaurant and home, I lost one earring.
I hadn’t thought about it in years.
Daniel watched my face.
“Dad told me about that night.”
I looked at the pink fabric stretched over my son’s knees.
“This is…mine.”
He nodded.
“Where was it?” I asked.
“In a box.”
“What box?”
“Dad found it in the attic when he was going through old stuff.”
