I was in the kitchen of my Boston home, roasting a turkey for our Thanksgiving dinner.
My husband, Woodward Rhodes, walked in and, without a word of greeting, ordered me to help our neighbor across the street, the single mother Cassandra Laine, whose basement heating pipe had just burst.
When I returned, soaked and exhausted from sorting out the mess at Cassandra's, I found Woodward fastening my late daughter Aria's memorial bracelet—one she had designed herself—onto the wrist of Cassandra's daughter, Paige.
I stared at the bracelet and said coldly, "Let's get a divorce, Woodward."
He looked at me in disbelief. "You want a divorce over this worthless trinket?"
"Yes. Exactly."
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My words hung in the air, and the room fell into a heavy silence.
Woodward's face tightened. "Laird, must you always make a mountain out of a molehill?"
He strode toward me, reaching out to offer a conciliatory hug, but I sidestepped his embrace.
His hands froze in mid-air, a flicker of impatience tightening his jaw. "I know you miss Aria, but she's been gone for years. We have to move on."
He lowered his voice, gesturing toward Cassandra Laine, who stood awkwardly to the side with a pained expression.
"You know Cassandra's situation. It's just a bracelet. Let her daughter have it. You're putting everyone in an awkward position."
Cassandra quickly fumbled with the clasp. Her eyes, already red-rimmed, met mine apologetically.
"Laird, I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... Woodward was just trying to be kind. Please, don't be angry with him. We'll give it back, of course."
Woodward grabbed Paige’s wrist, forcing it back down. "Keep it," he snapped. "Laird gets like this. She'll get over it."
Then he turned to me, frowning. "Go take a shower; you smell like rust," he ordered. "The pie's ready. Bring it out. Cassandra and Paige are hungry."
I didn't move. My gaze remained locked on the bracelet.
To him, this was nothing. Just an old trinket, a simple gesture of kindness for a neighbor. He couldn't comprehend, nor did he care to, what this bracelet meant to me.
A wave of cold despair washed over me, but I forced the words out. "I want a divorce."
Woodward's patience finally snapped. "Laird Adler, are you out of your mind? You'd tear our family apart over an old bracelet that's just been collecting dust? Do you think Aria would want to see this?"
"This isn't just an old bracelet," I said, my voice trembling as I fought back tears. I stared into his eyes, desperate to make him understand. "It was Aria's. She designed it herself."
"I know it was Aria's!" Woodward's voice rose. "But she's gone! What's the point of hoarding her things? What's the point of you clinging to these old possessions all day, trapping yourself in the past?"
"I gave it to Paige so it could finally be of some use—and to help you move on. I'm doing this for you!"
A lump formed in my throat, and a sharp pain shot through my chest. "You never asked, Woodward."
"Ask you? Would you have agreed? You treat everything Aria ever touched like a sacred relic, turning our home into a shrine and acting as its warden! I can't just stand by and watch you waste away like this!"
His words cut like daggers.
Yes, I had kept everything my daughter left behind.
Her sketches, her tiny paintbrushes, the art history books she'd dog-eared—I treasured them all in her room.
But this bracelet, I always kept with me.
On countless sleepless nights, I would clutch it, imagining the lingering warmth of her skin on the cold metal. It was the only thing that got me through the darkness.
It was my pain and my solace.
Woodward didn't understand. He never tried. To him, I was just sick—a problem that needed to be fixed.
