Love was always a possibility. Pigs could fly if they grew wings, or if the air grew thick like glue to hold them.
The glue of promises kept her at his side though love seemed lost—glue of memory, of commitment, or fear of change.
On Mother’s Day the family took her to brunch, which was nice, but she still had to clean. They gave her gifts and her husband placed the tiny box in her hand.
“Like your heart,” he said, as she gazed at the necklace inside. “A jewel. Delicate. Please say it’s not broken.”
And she smiled.