I shrugged.
“I don’t know… maybe $150?”
He shook his head slowly. “Try about $150,000.
Maybe more.”
It felt like the room tilted under me. Turns out, mixed in with the plastic beads and tarnished chains were genuine antique pieces—real gold, real gems.
My stepmom had either collected them secretly or inherited them.
And Alicia, blinded by her own resentment, never imagined her mother owned anything valuable. Now I’m stuck. A part of me thinks the jewelry technically belongs to Alicia.
But another part—the deeper, quieter part—remembers the way my stepmom looked at me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.
And I can’t shake the feeling that she wanted me to have this—not for the money, but for the connection she never got to say out loud.
