The blue sapphire stone was deep and clear, surrounded by an intricate engraving of tiny vines. My grandmother Merinda had given it to me when I turned eighteen, telling me it had belonged to her mother.
I lifted it out of the box.
The weight of the silver surprised me. It was cool and solid.
I could take it to Crestview Gold tomorrow morning.
The decision felt like a betrayal, but the yellow notice on the kitchen table was real.
The cold metal of the necklace rested in my palm.
The dash clock in my old Honda Civic read 8:42 AM. The engine made a wet, rattling sound as I waited at the red light on Lafayette Drive, the steering wheel vibrating under my hands. I shifted into neutral to quiet the noise. My right index finger kept twisting the plain silver band on my other hand, a habit I could not break.
The metal of the band felt warm, unlike the cold sapphire piece resting in my glove compartment. The yellow eviction notice was still sitting on my kitchen counter, but the number was burned into my mind. Three hundred dollars.
I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.
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