I’d worn the same battered silver locket since I was a baby and never knew why. Then one question from a former client made me realize my past wasn’t buried after all.
I was packing my daughter’s lunch before work when the silver locket slipped free from beneath my T-shirt and tapped against the kitchen counter. I caught it without thinking. The chain was old, the clasp barely held anymore, but I’d worn it every day for as long as I could remember.
Lily padded out in mismatched socks, hair a wild halo.
“Mom, can I have the crust cut off today?”
“That’s ’cause I meant it last week too.”
I smiled and sliced the crust, sliding the plate toward her. She climbed onto the stool and studied me the way only a nine-year-old can, like I was a puzzle with two pieces missing.
“Sorry,” I said automatically when I bumped her juice glass with my elbow, even though nothing spilled. Lily just smiled.
“Mom, you say sorry even when nobody’s mad.”
I smiled, but I didn’t answer.
“Mm?”
“What was your mommy’s name?”
“I’ve told you, Lily. My papers said UNKNOWN.”
“But she had a name.”
Lily chewed slowly, then reached out and tapped the locket with a syrupy finger.
“Maybe her name’s inside there.”
“Maybe.”
I’d tried to open it a hundred times as a kid. It never gave.
After she ran off to brush her teeth, I pulled a shoebox from the top shelf. Inside were old client cards held together with a rubber band. Thursdays: Eleanor’s house. Vanilla candles, marble floors that hurt my knees, and a glass of iced tea she always left waiting for me.
I hadn’t cleaned there in three years, not since her husband Arthur died and the house was sold. Nice people. Distant world.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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