“No!” I cried out, a sound of pure, helpless anguish, a sound that was too loud, too raw for this controlled environment.

Brenda held the locket up between her thumb and forefinger as if it were a dead insect she had just found in her salad. “This trash!” she spat, her voice ringing with triumphant disdain. With a flick of her wrist, she threw it. The heavy silver heirloom, my last physical connection to my mother, hit the imported Italian marble floor with a sickening clatter, skittering to a stop near the grand, unlit fireplace.

“A Sterling wife wears diamonds,” she repeated, her voice a final, dismissive verdict on my worth. “Not junk.”

Part II: The Matriarch