“I had it repaired.”
I turned it over.
The hinge was new.
Inside—
a photograph.
Not of Trevor.
Not me.
My mother.
Evelyn Sutter, twenty-six years old, standing beside a half-built concrete overpass in 1958.
Work boots.
Hair tied back.
She had brought lunch to my father every day while he worked road crews.
Trevor said:
“I found the picture in Grandma's old albums.”
I swallowed.
“She used to love lockets.”
“I know.”
The night of his birthday, I had tried to give him a little piece of family history.
He had been too busy measuring value in square footage to understand.
“What made you bring it back?”
Trevor looked toward the equipment yard.
“I don't think I deserved the gift then.”
I closed the locket.
“Gifts aren't wages.”
“I know.”
“Then don't turn returning it into another performance.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
I studied him.
“Do you want me to keep it?”
