The necklace rests against my collarbone almost every day. The journals are archived in the back of the gallery, open to anyone who wants to know the woman she truly was.
My husband visited once. He stood in front of her painting of the garden woman and whispered, “I never knew she felt this way.”
But now the world knows. And maybe that’s the point.
Sometimes, apologies don’t come in words spoken aloud. Sometimes, they come in what’s left behind—in a necklace, in a trunk of journals, in the truth hidden in an attic.
If you’ve ever felt unwanted, judged, or unloved, remember this: sometimes it isn’t about you. Sometimes the coldest hearts are carrying the heaviest wounds.
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