ter 8
Kimberly’s POV
Some memories from a decade ago still slice through me with surprising sharpness.
I bought a small basket of cherries–my mother’s favorite–planning to visit her grave one last time. When I was young, she’d eat them by the handful, saving the stems to tie into knots with her tongue, making me laugh until my sides hurt.
I needed to tell her that soon, I wouldn’t be making these visits anymore. The doctors had given me weeks, maybe a month if the medications worked
as hoped.
Before heading to the cemetery, I stopped by Cedric’s office to retrieve something precious–something I couldn’t leave behind.
My mother had adored Cedric. Back before her illness, when he and I still looked at each other like we held the answers to all life’s mysteries.
During a trip to Venice years ago, she’d bought two small handmade triangoli–traditional Italian cloth dolls. One for each of us.
Inside the male doll, she’d tucked a tiny scroll with Cedric’s birthday. Inside the female doll, she’d placed mine. An old Venetian superstition: the dolls would ensure safety, health, and eternal love.
Mother had asked me to give them to Cedric as a gift, her blessing on our relationship.
He’d refused to take his own doll, insisting instead on keeping mine.
“This one looks exactly like you,” he’d said, holding up the female doll with its round cheeks and comically wide eyes. “Same expression you make when you’re trying not to smile.”
“I’d rather have this one on my desk,” he’d continued. “A little piece of you watching over me while I work.”
That triangolo had remained on his desk through promotions, office moves, and our deteriorating marriage–a relic from when we were different people.
I feared that after I was gone, he would discard it without thought, erasing one of the few remaining connections to my mother. It was her gift to me, and I needed it back–to place at her headstone as my permanent proxy when I could no longer visit.
When I arrived at his office, I found Cedric staring at his laptop screen, watching the morning’s viral video–blood streaming from my nose while I calmly announced my impending death to a crowd of strangers.
Sensing my presence, he closed the laptop without meeting my eyes. No words, no questions about my health–just silence heavy with unspoken
accusations.
My gaze immediately went to the corner of his desk where the triangolo had sat faithfully for ten years. The space was empty.
A cold fear gripped me as I asked, “Where’s my doll?”
