My mother, Nancy, was a woman of quiet, deliberate poverty. She navigated life through a series of small, calculated sacrifices: reusing tea bags, hoarding expired coupons, and patching our winter coats until the original fabric was lost beneath the thread. She never splurged on herself, with one glaring exception—a cheap, gold-plated locket she found at a thrift store fifteen years ago. Despite its brassy, dulled finish, she wore it every day, even in hospice. When I’d ask what was inside, she would offer a small, enigmatic smile and claim the latch was glued shut to prevent it from snagging on...
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