She never bought anything new if she could avoid it. She reused tea bags, hoarded expired coupons, and wore sweaters around the house instead of turning on the heat. She baked bread from scratch, scrubbed her floors with vinegar, and patched our winter coats when the seams started to go.
She never splurged on herself. Not ever. Except for one thing, a cheap, gold-plated locket she found at Goodwill nearly 15 years ago. It wasn’t real gold, and the shine had dulled to a brassy yellow, but she wore it every single day.
Even to bed. And even in hospice. Almost every photo I have of her shows that little heart locket against her collarbone.
I had asked her once what was inside. “The latch broke the week I got it, Natalie,” she said, smiling. “I glued it shut so it wouldn’t snag on my sweaters.”
“Nothing, sweetheart.
Absolutely… nothing.”
I believed her. Why wouldn’t I?
**
My daughter, Ruby, is six.
She was born with severe conductive hearing loss, which meant that she wasn’t entirely deaf, but it was close enough. Her world is muffled. She wears small hearing aids that help pick up some frequencies, but she still relies on lip-reading, facial expressions, and vibrations to make sense of her environment.
It’s made her sharper in ways I didn’t expect. Ruby notices everything. My daughter and my mother were inseparable.
My mother taught her how to bake, showed her how to plant sunflowers from seed, and taught her how to feel music through touching the speaker. When my mom passed, Ruby clutched my arm and leaned in close. “I didn’t hear Gran leave.
Did she leave already?” she whispered. That moment gutted me.
A few days later, we were packing up Mom’s house, going through the kitchen drawers, closets, and old jars full of buttons, when Ruby held up the locket by its chain. “Grandma said this would be mine one day.”
“I know, baby,” I said, gently taking it from her.
“Let me just clean it up a little first, okay? I’ll make it nice and shiny for you.”
She nodded and then smiled. “She used to tap it twice.
