Eight years ago, I lost my wife, Margaret. She was only 38 when c.a.n.cer took her, leaving me to raise our daughter, Harper, who was just six at the time. I thought I’d never recover from that loss.
But before Margaret passed, she made me swear to protect something dear to her heart.
She’d inherited a gold jewelry set from her grandmother—a delicate bracelet, a necklace with a modest pendant, and matching earrings. That set had been passed down for four generations of women in her family, worn only once by each of them: on their wedding day. Margaret wore it on ours.
