Two weeks later, she was gone.
After the funeral, I took all 16 lines to Evelyn, the jeweler Grandma had talked about for years. I had never met her before, but I knew the name.
Evelyn had helped Grandma choose the pearls, match the sizes, and keep track of the measurements so the final necklace would fall exactly the way Grandma wanted.
She said, “Your grandma planned this longer than some people plan marriages.”
Together, we laid out the design. Sixteen layered lines.
A few days later, I brought the finished necklace to the care home to show Grandma. A nurse took a picture of us—me wearing it, Grandma smiling beside me.
That photo became sacred after she died.
Prom was when it was supposed to matter. Prom was the promise.
The morning of prom, I woke up nervous in a normal way. Hair appointment. Makeup. Dress hanging on the closet door. Grandma’s photo was propped against my mirror.
I went downstairs to get water.
And stopped dead.
Pearls everywhere.
The necklace was on the living room floor—destroyed.
Cut cords. Pearls scattered.
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