I’m sixteen years old, and when I was ten, cancer took my mother. She was gentle — the kind of gentle that softened even the hardest days. My dad adored her; you could see it in the way his hand always found hers, in the way he lingered when she laughed, like he was afraid to miss even a second.
Before she died, she gave me a silver locket. I didn’t understand its weight at the time. To me, it was just a necklace, pretty and shiny. But over the years, it’s become something else — a piece of her, a memory I can touch.
The Day Everything Changed
I remember the hospital room. White walls, the smell of disinfectant, the beeping machines that measured her breaths. My mom’s hair had thinned from chemo, but her smile was still there, small and warm, like a flickering candle refusing to die out.
She pressed the locket into my hand. “Whenever you feel lost,” she whispered, “hold this. I’ll always be with you.”
I clutched it, not really understanding that it was goodbye. My dad stood behind me, silent tears slipping down his face. For weeks afterward, I didn’t take the locket off, even at night. I thought maybe, if I held it tightly enough, I could keep her here.
Life Without Her
Grief came in waves. Some days I felt like I could breathe, even laugh. Other days, it was like trying to walk with an anchor tied to my chest.
Dad did his best. He learned how to braid my hair, though it was always crooked. He burned toast more often than not, but he tried. I could see the hollow in his eyes when he looked at her pictures. He never stopped wearing his wedding ring.
People told me time would heal. They were wrong. Time didn’t heal — it just taught me how to live with the ache.
Six Years Later
Now I’m sixteen. I’ve grown taller, my voice lower, my life busier. But the locket has never left my neck.
Inside are two tiny photographs: one of Mom holding me as a baby, her smile brighter than the sun, and one of Dad, younger, with laughter lines and hope still fresh in his eyes.
Sometimes at night, I open it and stare until my eyes blur. The silver is worn smooth from my fingers. It feels alive, almost like it carries her heartbeat.
The First Dance Without Her
Last winter was the school dance. I was nervous — my first real high school dance, the first time I’d wear makeup, the first time I’d wonder if someone might ask me to dance.
Dad sat on the couch when I came downstairs in my dress. His eyes softened, and for a second, I thought I saw the man he used to be before grief made him quieter.
“You look just like your mother,” he whispered.
The words struck me like an arrow. I wanted to feel proud, but instead, tears welled up. Because she should’ve been there, fixing my hair, pinning my corsage, fussing over pictures. Instead, it was Dad, standing alone, trying his best.
At the dance, when the music slowed and couples paired off, I stepped outside. I held the locket in my hand, whispering to her like a prayer. “Do you see me, Mom? Am I enough?”
A breeze rustled the trees, and I imagined it was her answer.
The Letter
On my sixteenth birthday, Dad gave me an envelope. His hands shook as he passed it to me.
“She wrote this for you,” he said quietly. “She asked me to give it to you when the time felt right.”
I unfolded the paper, my heart pounding. Her handwriting flowed across the page, delicate but strong:
*“My darling girl,
If you’re reading this, it means I couldn’t stay. I wanted more than anything to see you grow, to hold your hand on your first day of high school, to tell you how beautiful you look on prom night. But even if I’m not there, know this: you are loved beyond words. The locket I gave you — it’s a reminder, not just of me, but of the love that made you. You’ll have hard days, but you’ll never face them alone. Every time you feel doubt, hold it, and remember: you are strong, you are brave, you are mine.
Love forever,
Mom.”*
Tears blurred the words until I couldn’t see. Dad pulled me into his arms, and for the first time in years, we cried together.
What the Locket Means Now
The locket is no longer just silver and photographs. It’s a promise. A reminder that even though cancer took her body, it didn’t take her love.
When I walk into exams, terrified, I squeeze it. When friends fight and I feel alone, I touch it. When life feels too heavy, I whisper to it.
Sometimes I imagine her voice. Gentle. Steady. The kind of voice that could hush storms.
Moving Forward
I don’t know what the future holds. College applications, heartbreaks, victories — all the unknowns of growing up. But I know I’ll carry her with me.
Dad still wears his wedding ring. Sometimes I catch him looking at me the way he used to look at her — full of pride, full of love. And I realize something: though we lost her, we still have pieces of her everywhere. In me. In him. In the memories we keep alive.
One day, I’ll pass the locket down. To a daughter, maybe. Or maybe I’ll just keep it forever, close to my heart, the way she intended.
Because it isn’t just jewelry. It’s my mother’s final gift. A symbol of love so strong, not even death could take it away.
