Chapter 8: The Necklace

I had never seen David cry. This was the first time I saw his eyes red.

Tears traced lines down his face, making him look old and lost—just a man, not a monster, for once.

He took off his silver cross necklace, and despite my resistance, placed it on my wrist himself. His hands trembled as he fastened it, and for a second, I remembered the first time he’d put a necklace on me—Christmas morning, laughter echoing through the old kitchen.

"I went all the way to the Smoky Mountains for this, fasting for three days before I finally found it."

His voice caught. I remembered those trips, his stories about finding meaning in silence and wilderness—trying to buy redemption from the past.

"No matter where you go—heaven or hell—I will find you."

He sounded like a man praying, not a man confessing. I felt a shudder pass through me.

"You and I are meant to be husband and wife for all lifetimes."

His words landed heavy in the air, as if fate were a chain he could never let me break.

The last of my strength was spent struggling to remove that necklace.

My fingers fumbled with the clasp, nails digging into my wrist. The effort took everything I had left.

Looking at him, I managed to speak a rare truth from the past twenty years:

"David, may we never meet again, in any lifetime."

The words were clear, final. He flinched as if struck.

The necklace slipped from my hand, falling to the hardwood with a crisp, clear sound.

It rang out—one last punctuation mark in a story too long and too sad.

I looked at the man before me with revulsion, and with difficulty, said:

"For nothing, you’ve ruined my chance at peace."

My voice was barely more than a whisper, but it was the truth, at last.

Then I died, David’s cries echoing in my ears.

His sobs followed me down, distant and muffled, until there was only darkness.

In this life, I was Caleb and Natalie’s mother, David’s wife, matriarch of the Whitaker household—but I was never myself.

My own name faded, swallowed by the roles I played. The real me—whoever she was—never got a say.

The world is too bitter. In the next life, I do not wish to return.

If there’s another chance, I hope I come back as rain, or wind, or a field of wildflowers—anything but a woman in this house.

No sooner had I thought this than, in the next instant, I saw the twenty-year-old David standing before me, gazing at me with those deep, dark eyes.

He was young again, all promise and longing. But I felt nothing—only the ghost of regret, drifting between us like the hush after a funeral. Maybe this time, I could finally walk away.