“Because you’re the person who kept them safe when they mattered.”

That meant more than any title.

I returned the pearls to the top drawer, but this time I placed photographs beside them.

Audrey wearing them at her wedding.

Hannah wearing them at hers.

Different women.

Different years.

Same family.

—

A year later, Greg mentioned Karen’s birthday brunch.

“Karen’s birthday is Sunday.”

“I know.”

“She wants brunch.”

“Okay.”

“We’re all going.”

“Okay.”

He hesitated.

“What?”

“I want to make sure you’re comfortable.”

“With brunch?”

“With family.”

The fact that he asked showed how far we had come.

“I am.”

“And if the photographer says immediate family?”

I smiled.

“What?”

He looked embarrassed.

“I’m telling him where you stand.”

I reached across the table.

“I know where I stand.”

“That’s better.”

—

The biggest change came two years after the wedding.

Hannah called while I was grocery shopping.

“Jenna.”

“What?”

“Are you sitting down?”

“No.”

“Sit.”

“I’m in Kroger.”

“Find something.”

I found a bench near the pharmacy.

“I’m sitting.”

“I’m pregnant.”

I shouted loudly enough that a woman nearby smiled.

“You are so embarrassing.”

“You made me sit in Kroger.”

At the first ultrasound, Greg came.

So did Ethan.

Hannah invited me too.

My old instinct was to ask, Are you sure?

I stopped myself.

“I’d love to.”

The baby was a girl.

Hannah named her Audrey Rose.

I cried all afternoon.

Not because my name wasn’t there.

Because Audrey’s should have been.

When Audrey Rose was born, I stood beside Hannah’s hospital bed holding that tiny dark-haired baby.

“Jenna.”

“Yes?”

“You know you’re Grandma Jenna, right?”

I stared at her.

“Are you sure?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Apparently we need another speech.”

“No.”

I laughed through my tears.

“Grandma Jenna is perfect.”

Greg came closer.

“Both.”

I looked at him.

“Grandma Audrey in the stories.”

He touched the baby’s blanket.

“And Grandma Jenna in the room.”

Both.

—

Years passed.

Eventually, Greg added the photograph of Hannah hugging me at table four to our hallway wall.

He didn’t remove Audrey’s pictures.

He placed it beside them.

Audrey and Greg at the beach.

Hannah’s graduation.

Our wedding.

Hannah and Ethan.

Hannah and me at table four.

No ranking.

Just history.

One winter afternoon, four-year-old Audrey Rose found the velvet box.

Children possess a supernatural ability to locate whatever adults hope they will ignore.

“What’s this?”

She opened it.