And I think about how she protected them anyway, from six months and a lifetime away.
On the anniversary of her passing, the three of us drove out to the cemetery with white daisies, her favorite.
Maya held one half of the locket, Lily the other, and I stood behind them with a hand on each small shoulder.
“We’re okay, Mom,” I said. “We’re a mess. But we’re okay. And nobody’s ever taking them from me.”
The wind moved through the trees.
Lily leaned back against me.
“Can we get pancakes on the way home?” she asked.
I laughed, for what felt like the first time in a year.
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