“You need to listen to me very carefully.” Her voice shook. “And don’t be shocked by what I’m about to tell you.”
I stared at her. “Mom, you’re scaring me.”
I did.
Instead, there was a photo of a young man I had never seen before. I frowned. “Who is this?”
Her face changed.
“It obviously matters. You’ve kept this your whole life.”
She grabbed my wrist. “If he ever finds you somehow, do not believe a single word he says.
Promise me.”
I just stared at her. “Mom, who is he?”
“Promise me.”
So I whispered, “Okay. I promise.”
She let go and turned toward the window.
I asked again later. Then again, the next day. She would not answer.
Three days later, she died. After that, everything became noise. The funeral home.
The calls. The flowers. The casseroles.
People said, “She was such a strong woman,” as if those words could fix anything. I forgot about the locket for a while. I wore it in my pocket at the memorial because it was the last thing she gave me.
The service ended. People started drifting toward the doors. I was standing there thanking them because grieving children are apparently supposed to be polite.
Then someone touched my arm. I turned. And every part of me seized up.
It was him. The man from the locket. He looked just as shocked as I felt.
Then he said, quietly, “We don’t know each other, but we need to talk. I don’t think your mother told you the truth.”
I took a step back. “What?”
He glanced around at the people still leaving.
“Not here.”
