“I think you should give me the ring now.”

Chloe said it loudly enough that nearly everyone in the room heard her.

It was the afternoon of my mother’s funeral.

We were gathered in Mom’s living room, surrounded by relatives, neighbors, former coworkers, flowers, half-finished cups of coffee, and plates of food nobody seemed hungry enough to eat.

A framed photograph of Mom sat on the piano. It had been taken on her sixtieth birthday. Her head was tilted back, her mouth open in laughter, completely unaware that one day all of us would be standing around that same photograph trying to understand how the world could continue without her.

Then my brother’s wife crossed the hardwood floor in her black heels, stopped directly in front of me, and held out her hand.

I stared at her.

“What?”

“The ring,” Chloe said. “Your mother promised it to me.”

She lifted her chin.

“I’m married to her only son. It belongs with me.”

The room went silent.

My cousin Iris stopped halfway through lifting her coffee cup.

Aunt Marcy’s mouth fell open.

From somewhere near the fireplace, someone whispered, “She’s asking for it today?”

I looked over Chloe’s shoulder at my brother.

Brian was standing beside the bookshelf.

Looking at the floor.

“Brian?”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Harper, maybe we should deal with this later.”

Chloe gave a small, cold laugh.

“There’s nothing to deal with. Ruth knew I’d be carrying the family name. She wanted me to have the ring.”

It was a lie.

Mom hadn’t spoken during the final three weeks of her life.

And long before she lost her voice, she had never promised Chloe that ring.

I knew because I had been there.

Every night.

Chloe stretched her hand toward me again.

Her pale pink manicure was flawless.

“Don’t turn this into something ugly, Harper.”

I didn’t.

I reached into the pocket of my black cardigan.

Pulled out a small velvet jewelry box.

And placed it carefully into her open palm.

Chloe’s face brightened.

She grabbed it almost instantly.

She had absolutely no idea what was waiting inside.

I did.

And so had my mother.

Mom died on a Tuesday in early October after an illness that had slowly taken pieces of her away for almost a year.

I was thirty-two.

I had an apartment, a job, bills, a car payment, and an orange cat named Pickle who believed every chair in my home belonged to him.

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