“So did I, Mom,” I said. “So did I.”

Weeks later, when she was stronger, I took her to Saint Jude’s Church, where my late father used to bring her flowers when they were newlyweds.

We climbed the steps slowly, because her body was still healing day by day, and we sat together in a quiet wooden pew while the late afternoon sun came through the stained glass and the smell of melting wax hung in the air.

“Your father kept that little metal capsule,” she said, looking at the altar, “because he always said that small things can protect big promises.”

I took her frail hand in both of mine.

“And you used it,” I said, “to save my life.”