“This is dangerously emotional.”
“I hated every second.”
I laughed, then cried.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
But one wedding speech didn’t magically repair our marriage.
Greg still became defensive when uncomfortable.
I still had a habit of disappearing rather than risk being told I had overstepped.
So we started counseling.
Greg hated the word.
“Sounds like school.”
“It kind of is.”
“I was bad at school.”
“I noticed.”
Our counselor asked Greg to describe Audrey without mentioning her death.
That shook him.
For years, Audrey’s memory had become fused with losing her.
But Audrey had lived.
She watched terrible reality television.
Burned toast.
Hated folding laundry.
Sang too loudly in the car.
Greg had made her memory so sacred that nobody else could stand near it.
Counseling allowed her to become human again.
One evening, Greg admitted, “I think I was afraid if Hannah loved you too much, it meant she was forgetting Audrey.”
I asked, “Did she?”
“No.”
“She wore Audrey’s pearls to her wedding.”
“I know.”
“And came to my table.”
“Yes.”
“Both happened.”
Greg nodded.
“Both happened.”
That became an important word in our family.
Both.
Hannah could miss Audrey and love me.
Greg could honor Audrey and remain fully married to me.
I could be Hannah’s stepmother while admitting I loved her like family.
Both.
—
Several months later, Hannah invited me to lunch near the hospital where she worked.
She complained that Ethan left coffee mugs everywhere.
“He puts them on bookshelves.”
“That may be grounds for annulment.”
“I’m documenting.”
Then she reached into her purse.
The velvet box.
“Why do you have those here?”
“I want you to keep them.”
“No.”
“Jenna.”
“They’re yours.”
“I know.”
“So keep them.”
She pushed the box toward me.
“I want them safe.”
“I’m not a vault.”
“You basically are.”
I opened it.
Six pearls.
One still had hairspray near the base.
“You wore them.”
“I did.”
“Your mother wore them.”
“I know.”
“Hannah—”
“I’m not giving them to you.”
She smiled.
“I’m asking you to hold them until I have a daughter who might want them.”
My eyes filled.
“And if you don’t have a daughter?”
“Then maybe a niece. Maybe somebody else.”
She shrugged.
“Family figures it out.”
“Why me?”
