She put it on the morning after their first anniversary and has not taken it off since.
Forty five years. Every single day. Through school runs and grocery trips and Sunday lunches and hospital waiting rooms and every ordinary Tuesday that makes up a life. The pearl necklace her husband gave her on their first anniversary has been there for all of it.
He saved up for months to buy it. It was not extravagant by any standard — a simple strand of pearls, a small silver clasp, wrapped in tissue paper inside a box he had hidden in the back of the wardrobe for weeks. She cried when she opened it. Not because of the pearls. Because of what it meant that he had thought of it at all.
She wore it the next morning with a plain blouse and has worn it every day since.
Her husband passed away eleven years ago. The necklace has never left her neck.
Her children have offered over the years to have it restrung, reclasp it, get it properly restored. She always says it is fine the way it is. She knows every small imperfection in it — the pearl that sits slightly off center, the clasp that needs a little extra pressure to close. She does not want those things fixed. They are part of it now.
People who meet her for the first time always notice the necklace. When they ask about it she tells them the whole story without hesitating. Forty five years. First anniversary. Him.
She says she has no plans to stop wearing it.