The morning light fell softly across our kitchen, painting the countertops in that pale gold I had loved for 26 years. Anniversary mornings always felt like this.
But Nolan had never been good at gifts.
In 26 years, I had unwrapped a slow cooker, a winter coat two sizes too large, and once, a vacuum cleaner he swore was “top of the line.”
We never spoke her name out loud anymore.
I had learned to laugh after everything we had lost. Because we had lost our daughter, Emily, 10 years ago. Her name lived in a drawer in the hallway, in a small framed photo Nolan had quietly turned face-down one winter and never turned back.
I had noticed, but said nothing.
We never spoke her name out loud anymore.Lately, though, Nolan had seemed somewhere else. He took longer walks after dinner. Took phone calls out on the back porch with the door closed. Once I caught him staring at the turned-down frame in the hallway, his coffee gone cold in his hand.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Just tired, Liv.”
I let it go.
That morning, he came into the kitchen holding a small velvet box.
That morning, he came into the kitchen holding a small velvet box.“Happy anniversary, darling.”
I set my mug down and laughed. “What is this? Did you wrap a kitchen timer?”
He smiled. “Open it.”
Inside was a bracelet so beautiful I forgot how to breathe, all delicate white gold and tiny diamonds catching the morning light as if they had been waiting for it.
“Nolan.” I looked up. “This must have cost a fortune.”
I had no idea the voucher in my purse was about to unravel something I wasn’t ready to know.
“You deserve something nice for once.”
“For once? You bought me a vacuum, sweetheart.”
He laughed, and for a second it was the old laugh, the one from before. Then it faded too quickly, the way it always did when the thought got near Emily.
I slipped the bracelet on. It was a little loose, but I wore it all night, anyway.
The next morning, I found the receipt in Nolan’s drawer and went to the store to have the bracelet resized.
I had no idea the voucher in my purse was about to unravel something I wasn’t ready to know.
He bought two of these last week.”
The little bell above the door chimed when I walked in, and the saleswoman behind the counter looked up with a soft, practiced smile.
“Can I help you?”
“I just need this resized,” I said, sliding the bracelet across the glass. “My husband bought it for our anniversary.”
Her face brightened the moment she saw it.
“Oh, this one! I remember your husband. He bought two of these last week. I remember clearly because he spent forever choosing between two identical ones.”My heart seemed to miss a beat.
“Did he say who the second one was for?”
“Two identical ones?”
She blinked, the smile faltering. “Yes, Ma’am. Two identical bracelets.”
I gripped the edge of the counter to steady myself.
“Did he say who the second one was for?”
“No, Ma’am. I’m sorry. He didn’t mention.”