Something I should’ve learned to do sooner.”
She left in tears, her car pulling away too fast down the oak-lined street. That night, I slept with Warren’s photograph on my bedside table and felt grief, yes—but not regret. Two weeks later, the necklace was recovered.
The auction house cooperated quickly once lawyers entered the room. Insurance handled the rest with the cold efficiency I was suddenly grateful for. Vanessa’s engagement didn’t survive the questions that followed.
Neither did her illusion that being someone’s daughter made her untouchable. We are not estranged. But we are changed.
She’s in counseling now. She’s paying restitution. She’s learning—slowly—that love is not proven by sacrifice taken from someone else.
And the necklace? I don’t wear it every day anymore. I keep it where it belongs—safe, accounted for, respected.
Because the last thing my husband ever gave me wasn’t just jewelry. It was proof that love doesn’t disappear just because someone else decides to spend it.
