She emptied everything out of the closet except for the boxes and shoes. In the back corner, underneath a boot box, she spied a pink silk jewelry box she’d given Molly for her tenth birthday. She yanked it from the bottom of the closet and lifted it to her face, rubbed the worn silk across her cheek. She remembered that when you raised the top, a small, rail-thin ballerina would pirouette in endless circles on one toe. Once upon a time, the ballerina would dance around and around while Molly organized her ten-year-old’s jewelry, hid her favorites under the pink flannel false bottom.

Molly had been so excited to have her own jewelry box, but she’d been even more excited about her first piece of jewelry: a small silver cross she’d found in the bottom of her mother’s jewelry box.

Amy took a quick breath.

She’d given it to Molly. She hadn’t lost it.

She pulled at the false bottom, yanked the square out with a cloud of dust as a fake pearl flew from the side of the box. She scooted out to the light and stared into the cushion of cotton on the bottom. There it was: her necklace, her cross. What she thought she’d lost was still there.

She picked up the chain and held it to the light. A sudden discernment came with a wave of nausea, a flash of silver: what she’d been looking for all along was not Nick, not what they’d had, but the part of her that was once with him, the pieces of herself that she’d sequestered when he’d left her. She hadn’t lost Nick, she hadn’t lost her small silver cross—she’d given them away.

I lost . . . me.

The thought was as clear as the silver cross dangling from her fingers. She stood and ran down the stairs, looked up at the clock: six in the evening. Phil would be home soon.

She sat at the kitchen table, the old necklace held lightly between her fingers, and waited.

Phil walked in the side door from the garage, looked at her. She stood and went to him. The sides of his eyes were crinkled, his head tilted in question. She held up her hand, held up the cross and threw her arms around her husband’s neck.

“It was me . . . me I lost. It wasn’t anything else. It was never him.”

Phil pulled away from her. “What?”