Page 39 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

He stopped. “She hasn’t seen it?”

“No,” I said, clutching the ivory. “I wasn’t sure that would be best. I wanted to check with you first.”

“Why?”

Why? Because I didn’t know what it would do to her if she recognized it. Worse, I didn’t know what it would do to me if she didn’t. The necklace had survived a war, an ocean, and generations of other hands, and I was afraid my mother would look at it and see nothing.

“She may not remember it.”

My father glanced through the open doors. My mother sat by the windows, absently turning the pages of a book.

He held out his hand. “Come.”

We entered together.

My mother looked up at once. “You’re late for tea.”

“Terribly,” my father agreed, crossing to kiss her temple. “Rafe brought you a treasure.”

Her attention moved to the case. I sat and placed it on the low table between us.

“May I show you?” I asked.

She nodded. The necklace lay against the pale lining, dark metal and old enamel, the edges of the pendant marked by heat. For several seconds, my mother did not move, then she gasped and covered her mouth.

“Oh, my,” she said.

My father’s hand settled on the back of her chair. I stayed still, afraid movement would disturb whatever path had opened in her memory.

She reached for the pendant but stopped before touching it. “He fastened it for her on New Year’s morning. She said it was too fine for breakfast, but she still wore it.”

The details matched the fragmented memories she’d given me, and that made my throat tight.

“You found it,” she said.

“You told me where to look.”

“No, darling. I told you it was lost.” Her gaze rose to mine, clear and intent.

My father looked away.

Mother lifted the necklace, her fingers trembling. “Rafa?”

He moved around the chair as she gathered her hair up, then he fastened the chain at the nape of her neck with the care of a man handling something far more fragile than metal.

The pendant settled above her heart. She raised her fingers to it, then began to cry.

There was no drama to it. Tears slipped down her face while she smiled at my father, and he crouched beside her with one hand around hers. I had imagined the relic’s return as vindication.

Standing there, I understood that was too small a word.

For ten minutes, perhaps fifteen, my mother told us what she remembered. Her grandmother singing while she dressed. The morning the necklace had been traded for papers and safe passage.

Some details contradicted others, but we didn’t correct her.

When the thread began to fray, she removed the necklace and placed it carefully in my palm.

“Keep it somewhere I can go to regularly,” she said.