My husband gave me the most gorgeous bracelet I had ever owned on our anniversary, and for one foolish evening, I let myself believe 26 years of marriage had finally softened him into a romantic man. Then the saleswoman at the jewelry store smiled at me and said he had bought two.

Morning sunlight slipped gently across our kitchen, turning the countertops the pale gold I had adored for 26 years. Anniversary mornings had always felt that way.

But Nolan had never been good at choosing gifts.

Across 26 years, I had opened a slow cooker, a winter coat two sizes too big, and once, a vacuum cleaner he insisted was “top of the line.”

I had learned to laugh after everything we had lost. Because 10 years earlier, we had lost our daughter, Emily. Her name lived inside a hallway drawer, in a small framed picture Nolan had quietly turned face-down one winter and never turned upright again.

I had seen it happen, but I said nothing.

We no longer said her name aloud.

Recently, though, Nolan had seemed distant. He went on longer walks after dinner. He answered phone calls on the back porch with the door shut. Once, I found him staring at that face-down frame in the hallway, his coffee cold in his hand.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Just tired, Liv.”

I let it pass.

That morning, he entered the kitchen with a small velvet box in his hand.

“Happy anniversary, darling.”

I put my mug down and laughed. “What is this? Did you wrap a kitchen timer?”

He smiled. “Open it.”

Inside was a bracelet so stunning I forgot how to breathe, delicate white gold set with tiny diamonds that caught the morning light as though they had been made for it.

“Nolan.” I looked at him. “This must have cost a fortune.”

“You deserve something nice for once.”

“For once? You bought me a vacuum, sweetheart.”

He laughed, and for one brief second it sounded like the old laugh, the one from before. Then it disappeared too fast, the way it always did whenever the thought drifted too close to Emily.

I put the bracelet on. It was slightly loose, but I wore it the whole night anyway.

The following morning, I found the receipt in Nolan’s drawer and went to the jewelry store to have the bracelet resized.

I had no idea the voucher in my purse was about to pull apart something I was not prepared to know.

The small bell above the shop door rang when I walked in, and the saleswoman behind the counter lifted her head with a gentle, polished smile.

“Can I help you?”

“I just need this resized,” I said, placing the bracelet on the glass. “My husband bought it for our anniversary.”

Her expression brightened as soon as she saw it.

“Oh, this one! I remember your husband. He bought two of these last week. I remember clearly because he spent forever choosing between two identical ones.”

My heart seemed to skip.

“Two identical ones?”

She blinked, her smile wavering. “Yes, Ma’am. Two identical bracelets.”

I held the edge of the counter to keep myself steady.

“Did he say who the second one was for?”

“No, Ma’am. I’m sorry. He didn’t mention.”