For years, I mistook my mother-in-law’s coldness for hatred. Every word, every glance felt like a quiet rejection. When she died, I braced for grief and guilt — not the strange relief that came instead. Then I found the silver teardrop pendant with my initials and her final letter. In it, she confessed that I reminded her of the woman she used to be before fear and convention buried her dreams. The “L.T.” wasn’t for me — it was for a lost love and the daughter she never had. She saw in me both, and it terrified her.
Continues…
