I considered throwing it away several times, but I never did.
The diamond ring had been worth $19,000.
The Tuscany tickets had been worth thousands more.
That little bracelet had cost seven dollars.
Yet it became the most useful gift Fallon ever gave me.
Whenever I opened the drawer and saw the faded pink plastic, I remembered the afternoon I found her behind my desk speaking in my name.
I remembered how calmly I closed the door.
I remembered that I did not have to scream to stop something.
And I remembered the sound that changed everything: not Fallon’s podcast voice, not applause from a backyard full of strangers, but my own unedited voice filling my office exactly as I had spoken it.
Nothing removed.
Nothing rearranged.
Nothing borrowed without permission.
For the first time in a long while, that was enough.
