Years ago, on my birthday, he had surprised me with a small velvet box. I could still recall the way my hands trembled as I opened it, a smile already forming on my lips. Inside was a necklace—a delicate gold chain with a shining pendant.
“Do you like it?” he’d asked, watching me closely.
“Yes,” I had whispered, tears prickling my eyes. It wasn’t about the jewelry, it was about the thought—the promise that he remembered me, that he cared.
But that evening, when Beatrice arrived for dinner, I noticed something. Around her neck hung the exact same design—only hers gleamed brighter, heavier, real. Mine… mine was a replica. A cheap imitation.
I wanted to ask him why. I wanted to demand an explanation, to scream, to cry. But instead, I pressed my lips together and forced a smile, pretending it didn’t matter.
Because I told myself then, as I had always told myself: Don’t make trouble. Don’t pick a fight. Just endure it, Candice. It’s not worth losing everything.
But now, standing there with my husband looking at me like I was nothing, I realized—enduring had stolen everything from me anyway.
He stared at me strangely. “What’s wrong? Are you mad? Why aren’t you saying a word?”