Page 72 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

"He was," she murmurs, brushing her thumb over his face. "And you know what? I think he'd want us to be, too."

My mother reaches deeper into the box and pulls out a small velvet pouch. "Oh," she breathes, her fingers trembling slightly as she loosens the drawstring. A silver bracelet slides into her palm, three charms dangling from the delicate chain.

"I gave him this for our tenth anniversary," she explains, voice soft with memory. "A charm for each of us—him, me, and you."

I lean closer to see the tiny figures: a guitar for Dad, a book for Mom, and a small willow branch that I realize is meant to represent me.

“It was too small, so he kept it in his pocket,” she smiles, sliding the bracelet into her pocket. “You don’t mind if I take this little memento?”

“Nope,” I shake my head. “You were the love of his life.”

She looks down at her worn out Nike sneakers and smiles. “He was the love of my life as well, Willow. The best guy I have ever known.”

My chest tightens. In the past, I would have lashed out, insisting that you don’t just walk away from the love of your life. But something has shifted.I’veshifted. There’s no need to keep punishing her for the choices she made. I understand my mom now. For every bright smile and teasing wink, there’s a shadowlurking beneath the surface, always threatening to pull her under. And now that I see that—reallysee it—I can’t bring myself to hate her anymore. Especially since she is the only parent I have left, and Damien made me realize how precious that is.

“Okay,” she sighs, scooting across the bed and grabbing my hand in hers. “Enough with the sentimental semantics. What are you doing for Damien’s birthday tonight? Anything that needs me to be out of the house?”

“Mom,” I screech, my cheeks heating up to a ruby red.

“I have to ask!” She says, not allowing me to pull back my hands in embarrassment. “Especially after the three hour marathon you all did in the living room!”

“Mom!”

“You are not a quiet girl, Willow, but what can I expect,” she chuckles. “Neither am I.”

“Oh my God.” I cover my face with my hands and scream into my palms. “Kill me now!”

“Or invest in a gag ball.” My mother mutters and I immediately hop up off the bed.

“Alright! I’m leaving!” I pant, moving towards the door.

“Okay, okay. I’ll stop!” My mother chuckles, holding her hands up in surrender. “But seriously what is the plan?”

I pause in the doorway, still mortified but managing to roll my eyes. "Dinner at his favorite sushi place, then probably a movie back at his place. Lowkey. No gag balls required."

Mom smirks, but mercifully lets the joke die. "Sounds perfect. You get him a gift yet?"

"That’s actually why I came here," I admit, turning back toward the half-unpacked boxes. "I wanted to find something of Dad’s to give him. Something meaningful."

Mom tilts her head, considering. “Really, why?”

“Damien and Dad got really close towards the end of his life. He really liked Damien, mostly because he played hockey, but he also thought he was good for me."

"He was right," Mom says simply, and I feel my heart swell a little at the easy approval. “Go check in that box, there are some things in there that may be a good present for Dames.”

I walk over to the unlabelled box that sits on the dresser, “Wait, you called him Dames? When did you two get on a nickname level?”

“Ever since he made it his life mission to get me back into your good graces,” she smiles. “You see, Damien has the right idea, by getting the parents on his side.”

I snort as I lift the flaps of the box and start sifting through the contents. A stack of old receipts, a pocket knife with a chipped wooden handle, a book of crossword puzzles half-filled in with Dad’s cramped handwriting. My fingers brush against something cold and metallic at the bottom.

I pull out a watch.

It’s simple—silver with a navy blue face, the leather strap worn soft from years of use. I turn it over in my hands, running my thumb over the back. There, faint but still visible, are the initialsDWengraved into the metal.

“DW?” I murmur aloud, frowning. “Who’s that?”

Mom leans over to look, and her face softens. “DaphneWalters,” she says, her voice warm with memory. “That was your grandmother’s maiden name.”

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