tmv-At my wedding reception, I caught my seven-year-old flower girl wearing my dead mother’s gold locket and ripped it from her neck, accusing her of stealing it—until she whispered, “Your mother gave it to me”; inside was a recent photograph of Mom alive beside a newborn with the same birthmark as the child, and before I could demand answers, a voice came from the back of the ballroom: “You didn’t bury your mother six years ago… you buried an empty casket.”
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