Vivian stood there, mascara streaked down her cheeks, tears ruining what was left of her makeup.
"The bracelet won't come off... it's swollen."
Mom opened the door and let her in.
"I told you," she said, her voice flat and even. "It knows its owner."
At the hospital, the doctor shook his head.
"The only option is to break it off."
The jade bangle cracked into pieces.
Vivian gasped, sucking air through her teeth against the pain.
Mom picked up the largest shard.
She held it up to the light.
"Better this way," she said. "Clean."
Dad didn't come home for days.
Mom cooked and cleaned as usual. She even signed up for a baking class.
"I'm going to learn how to make your favorite strawberry cake," she told me.
She burned several pans' worth.
But she didn't give up.
Not until she pulled out a soft, perfect chiffon.
She piped the frosting carefully, arranged the strawberries just so.
"Does it look right?" she asked me.
I nodded.
She smiled. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes deepened.
"Your grandma was the best at making these."
The cake sat on the table, waiting for Dad to come home.
He never showed.
On the third night, the phone rang.
The hospital.
Mom listened quietly until the end.
"Understood," she said. "I'm on my way."
Grandpa and Grandma Abbott's remains had already been cremated.
Two small boxes, side by side on a shelf.
Mom touched them gently.
"No more fear," she whispered. "No more pain."
On the way home, she bought a bouquet of white chrysanthemums. She arranged them in the vase that had sat empty for a long time.
Dad finally came back.
Reeking of liquor.
"All taken care of?" he asked.
Mom was ironing clothes. Steam billowed up, veiling her face.
"All taken care of."
Dad nodded, satisfied.
His gaze caught the cake on the table.
"What's this?"
"Try some." Mom cut him a slice. "Just learned how."
Dad took a bite and frowned.
"Too sweet."
"Is it?" Mom tasted a piece herself. "I think it's just right."
She ate slowly. Every bite chewed with deliberate care. Like she was savoring something precious.
Dad went upstairs to sleep.
Mom sat in the dark.
Moonlight fell across the cake in her hands.
She pressed her palm to her mouth.
Her shoulders shook violently.
But she didn't make a sound.
She didn't go upstairs until nearly dawn.
She sat at the edge of my bed for a while. Her hand brushed through my hair, feather-light.
The lawyer came in the morning. Mom went to meet him.