I cried harder than I ever had. That money became The Teardrop, a gallery downtown dedicated to overlooked artists—especially women who never got their chance. We filled the walls with hidden talent, voices silenced by duty or discouragement. Women came forward with their work and their stories. I saw pieces of my mother-in-law in every one of them.
The necklace still rests at my collarbone, a reminder of her truth. Her journals are archived in the gallery for anyone who wants to know the woman behind the bitterness. My husband stood once before the garden painting and whispered, “I never knew she felt this way.” Neither had I. But now the world does.
Her apology didn’t come in words she could speak, but in what she left behind—art, regrets, and a legacy she trusted me to uncover. Sometimes, the people who wound us most are carrying stories so fragile they can only hand them over after they’re gone.
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