It said, ‘If you are reading this, my darling girl, it means I have finally gone where I cannot meddle. Do not let grief become your jewellery. Let me go. When you are ready, release me at the lake.’ My hands shook. The rest of the letter was smaller, uneven, as if written at night. ‘I trust Emma with the urn until you decide. She is to safeguard—not to hoard. If you are angry, call her. If you are afraid, call me in memory. Promise me you will choose peace.’
I clutched the envelope to my chest, the wooden urn heavy against my hip like a ridiculous, stubborn thing. Her instruction felt like both permission and a rebuke. I looked up at my daughter; she avoided my eyes, hands twisting a tissue. Her father-in-law cleared his throat. ‘We were trying to help,’ he said. ‘With her surgery—’
‘You stole from me,’ I snapped, the words too loud and at once. Anger flared, hotter than grief, then cooled into a hollow ache as the letter’s last line pulsed in my head: Promise me you will choose peace.
Emma flinched. ‘Mom, I—’ she began, voice thin. The in-laws traded looks. I thought of nights with Mom, the lake she loved, the way she hummed as she folded linens. I thought of my own hands, raw from surgery, wanting someone to steady me. I stepped forward slowly, placed the envelope back on the urn, and said, ‘We will talk at home. All of us. But the urn goes with me tonight.’ They protested; I didn’t wait. The drive felt like a small theft. At home, I set the urn on the kitchen table, lit a candle, and waited for Emma to come clean, knowing forgiveness would have to be chosen, not demanded, yet.
