The sound of the television downstairs hummed through the floor, the faint murmur of the afternoon news. I looked at these little gems, remembering how my mother only wore them on Sundays or when my father took her to the fair.
Damon walked down the hall, his footsteps heavy on the floor, and stopped at the doorframe of my bedroom. He straightened his shirt collar, his gaze moving from my face to my hands.
“Are we wearing family heirlooms now?” he asked.
“I was just looking at them,” I said, my voice breaking as I tried to put them back in the box.
“Okay,” he said, turning toward the stairs. “We wouldn’t want you to look like you’re trying too hard for your age.”
“They belonged to my mother,” I said.
“I know who they belonged to,” he said, his voice echoing through the stairwell. “I’m just saying to keep it simple.”
He laughed, that quick, dry sound he always made when he was joking, but I kept my hand on the velvet lid until I heard him enter the kitchen. Then I decided to leave them in the drawer.
