When my mother-in-law passed away, I felt something I hadn’t expected: relief. She had never liked me. Not once had she offered a kind word or a thoughtful gesture. At her memorial, my husband handed me a small box and said, “She asked me to give you this today.”
He nodded. “She was very clear. Said you should open it today. Alone.”
That word—alone—lingered. I waited until the house was quiet, our son asleep, the guests gone. Sitting on the edge of our bed, I studied the necklace. It looked vintage. On the back, etched faintly, were two initials: L.T.
My initials.
I couldn’t imagine how she’d come to own a necklace with my initials. Coincidence? Maybe. But curiosity tugged harder. I searched the box for a note. There it was—folded, with my name written in her unmistakable, sharp script.
I hesitated. Then opened it.
“If you’re reading this, I’m gone. And if you’re reading it, that means I finally grew a spine. I never said it when I should’ve, but… I was wrong about you. All along. And I need to tell you why.”
I stared at the page, stunned. She wasn’t the kind of woman who admitted fault.
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