I was sixteen the night my father finally heard the truth—every sharp word, every sneer, every time my stepmother tried to erase my mother’s memory. By then, I’d learned to carry grief like a secret: close to my skin, where no one could snatch it away.

When I was ten, my mom, Nora, gave me a small velvet box. Inside was a silver locket etched with a tiny forget-me-not. She fastened it at my neck and whispered, “When you touch this, you’ll find me.” On one side was a photo of us at the county fair, on the back her handwriting: Carry me into your tomorrows. – N.

Months later, cancer took her. The house felt empty. Dad began laughing again when Helen arrived, polished and smiling, rolling in suitcases that smelled like department stores. I wanted to give her a chance for his sake.

At first, she was gentle. Then came the small digs: “Your mother never taught you grace,” or “Clinging to the past isn’t healthy.” Helen’s mother, Karen, was worse—her laughter like a blade. Dad never saw it. When I told him, Helen spun soft concern, and he asked me to try.

On Dad’s birthday, the house gleamed like a magazine. Helen spotted the locket. “Take that off before people notice. Do you want to embarrass us?” Karen added, “Trashy trinket from a dead woman.”

Something inside me stood up. “This is my mother’s locket. I’m not taking it off.”

The room fell silent.

Helen’s smile hardened. “I’m your mother now. I’ve done more for you than she ever did.”

Dad entered, cake in hand, voice sharp. “Insulting my daughter and mocking my wife’s memory—get out.”

The door slammed. The air changed.

He knelt beside me. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. The person I’m proudest of is my daughter—who carries her mother’s light every day.”

I didn’t hide the locket. I let it shine, just as Mom intended.