I stood on my mother’s porch longer than necessary, fingers curled tightly around a velvet box that had already warmed from my grip. The late afternoon sun slanted across the familiar wood planks, highlighting the crack near the step I used to trip over as a child. Through the closed front door came the muffled sounds of laughter and overlapping voices, the kind of easy noise that suggested everyone was already settled, already comfortable, already complete without me.
Inside the box was a gold lily pendant. I had spent weeks choosing it. Not because my mother needed another necklace, but because the flower mattered. Lily. My daughter’s name. I had told myself it was symbolic, thoughtful, generous. I had told myself this was what a good daughter did. She showed up. She brought something beautiful. She tried.
At thirty six, you would think I would have perfected the smile by now. The polite one. The harmless one. The one that said I am fine, everything is fine, please do not look too closely. The smile that slid easily into photos and let people believe I belonged.
