Three weeks after my mother died, I broke open the thrift-store locket she’d kept glued shut for 15 years, and I called the police before I even finished her note. Because whatever she hid inside it suddenly felt bigger than grief…
My mother, Nancy, lived quietly.
She never bought anything new if she could avoid it. She reused tea bags, hoarded expired coupons, and wore sweaters around the house instead of turning on the heat.
She baked bread from scratch, scrubbed her floors with vinegar, and patched our winter coats when the seams started to go.
My mother lived quietly.
She never splurged on herself. Not ever. Except for one thing, a cheap, gold-plated locket she found at Goodwill nearly 15 years ago. It wasn’t real gold, and the shine had dulled to a brassy yellow, but she wore it every single day.
Even to bed. And even in hospice.
Almost every photo I have of her shows that little heart locket against her collarbone.
I had asked her once what was inside.
She never splurged on herself.
“The latch broke the week I got it, Natalie,” she said, smiling. “I glued it shut so it wouldn’t snag on my sweaters.”
“But what’s inside?”
“Nothing, sweetheart. Absolutely… nothing.”
I believed her.
Why wouldn’t I?
Leave a Comment