I always knew my mom’s things would cause problems—not because they were valuable, but because they were pieces of her. She died when I was 12, and ever since, her jewelry, ring, and watch have been the only parts of her I could protect.
When I was 15, my dad gave me all her belongings after his girlfriend tried to steal some. Later, his sister tried too. I moved Mom’s things to my grandparents’ house for safekeeping and never regretted it.
Years passed. Dad remarried, and his new wife, Rhoda, has two daughters. A few weeks before their wedding, Dad asked if I’d give “a few of Mom’s things” to them—her Claddagh ring, wedding necklace, bracelet, even her wedding ring. Rhoda, he said, thought wearing it would make her feel like his “one and only.”
I said no. He didn’t take it well. Then Rhoda called, dripping sweetness, asking what kind of “daughter” or “sister” I was being. I told her, “You’re 38. I’m 26. Let that sink in.”
On their wedding day, I showed up smiling and handed her a small gift box. She opened it eagerly. Inside were my mom’s old cleaning rags.
“You wanted something of hers to feel part of the family,” I said, smiling. “Here you go.”
And I walked out, proud—knowing my mom would’ve been too.
