I wear it every day now.

It is the one thing of Julian’s era I kept, and I kept it precisely because I reclaimed it, unclasped it from another woman’s throat with my own hand; it stopped being his gift the moment I took it back, and became, instead, a small daily reminder that I am a woman who pays attention, and who acts.

Leo comes running into the kitchen, his sneakers squeaking on the tile, waving a drawing — a house with an enormous yellow sun blazing over it.

“Look, Mommy!” he says, pressing it to my apron.