The Necklace
I should have known something was wrong the moment I saw the velvet box.
It was dark blue, the color of a bruise, and Susan was carrying it in both hands like it was something precious. She walked into the back room of Marco’s with her chin up and her lipstick fresh, smiling at everyone, and when she got to me, she held it out.
“Happy birthday, Emily,” she said. “I had this made especially for you.”
Thirty-five years old. A room full of people I loved. Candles on the table, a bottle of red wine already half gone, my husband’s hand resting warm on my back.
And for one stupid, hopeful second, I thought my mother-in-law was finally trying to make peace.
Everyone leaned closer.
I remember my fingers on the little gold clasp. I remember Thomas shifting in his chair. I remember my best friend Tara whispering, “Ooh, jewelry,” and my father-in-law, Matthew, reaching for the bread basket without looking up.
I remember thinking, Maybe this is her way of saying sorry.
Then I opened the lid.