“You once said you liked handmade silver jewelry. I asked an old craftsman to make this—it took him half a month. I even had Ethan’s name engraved on it. Try it on?”
A handcrafted apology. The artisans he found for me felt like apologies dressed up in pretty things.
Gasps of admiration rose around us.
They breathed for him, as if my acceptance would validate their belief in his efforts.
“Oh my gosh, that’s from Tiffany’s custom line, isn’t it? I heard you have to wait months for a piece like that.”
“Angela, your husband is so thoughtful. A man like this is rare to find. If you ask me, stop making trouble and go home to live well with him.”
I could hear myself being judged like a piece of furniture someone else felt entitled to. It made me laugh inwardly, a small private laugh, as if to say, I know what I am doing.
I glanced briefly at the necklace, then pushed the box back toward him.
My voice was steady as I said, “No need. I don’t like wearing jewelry.”
His hand froze in midair. Color drained from his face, and the light in his eyes faded slowly, like a broken lamp flickering out.