year later, Rachel joined me at my house for Christmas Eve.
No twelve-foot Christmas tree.
No string quartet.
No designer gowns.
Just roasted chicken, familiar Christmas songs, and the pie she hadn’t allowed me to bring into the Whitmore home.
Before dinner, she offered me a small box.
Inside lay my husband’s bracelet.
I stared in surprise.
“You kept it?”
“You dropped it when they made you leave.”
She secured it around my wrist.
“I should have walked out with you.”
I studied my daughter for a long moment.
“Next
