A single pink earring lay in his palm.
Cheap metal.
One fake stone was missing.
The hook bent slightly out of shape.
I knew it.
My hand closed around the back of the chair.
“No.”
“What?”
“Where did he get that?” I asked.
“Mom…”
“Where?”
Daniel crouched in front of me.
“He kept it.”
Tears flooded my eyes, stinging hot.
That earring had disappeared more than 30 years ago.
Before Daniel.
Before mortgages.
Before cancer medication lined our kitchen counter.
Before I became the person everybody called when something needed remembering.
—
I was 23.
Richard and I were dating.
I’d worn that pink dress to a cheap little restaurant where the owner offered free dessert to anyone brave enough to dance when an old song came on.
Richard refused.
Naturally, I stood up.
“Tisha, sit down.”
“Absolutely not.”
“There are people eating.”
“They’ll survive.”
I danced between tables badly enough to make strangers clap.
