After the divorce, I walked out with two trash bags of clothes, a cracked phone, and my mother’s old necklace.
That was it.
Brandon kept the house. The car. The furniture we picked out together. The judge called it equitable. Brandon called it a win.
For three weeks, I lived off diner tips and caffeine. Then my landlord taped a red notice to my door: FINAL WARNING.
That night, I opened the shoebox I’d hidden in the back of my closet. Inside lay the necklace my mom had worn only on Sundays. Thick gold chain. A teardrop pendant set with a deep blue stone that caught the light like it was alive.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I whispered. “I just need one month.”The next morning, I stepped into Carter & Co. Jewelers—a narrow, polished boutique wedged between a bank and a law office outside Dallas.
A man in a gray vest looked up from behind the counter. Neat hair. Magnifying loupe around his neck.
“How can I help you?”
“I need to sell this,” I said, placing the necklace carefully on the glass.
He barely glanced at it.
Then his hands froze.
He flipped the pendant over and rubbed at something near the clasp. His face drained white.
“Where did you get this?” he whispered.
“It was my mom’s,” I said, suddenly uneasy. “I just need rent money.”
“What was her name?”
“Linda Parker.”
He stumbled backward like the counter had shocked him. “Miss… please sit down.”
“Is it fake?” I asked, panic rising.
“No,” he breathed. “It’s very real.”
