I used to watch my stepmom clip on her thrift-store earrings every morning, standing tall in front of the mirror like they were priceless. She never owned anything fancy, and my stepsister Alicia made sure she never forgot it. “Mom looks like a cheap Christmas tree,” she’d laugh.

I wasn’t especially close to my stepmom—she married my dad when I was ten—but I respected her. She tried. And since my biological mother left when I was two, she was the closest thing I ever had to one.

When she died suddenly in her sleep, I was seventeen. The house felt hollow. The very next day, Alicia told my dad and me to leave. Her mother’s name was on the deed, and she wasted no time reminding us.

We left with clothes, a few books, and a small tin jewelry box I took without thinking. Inside were faded necklaces, mismatched earrings, pieces that smelled faintly of her perfume. That was enough for me.

Months later, a distant cousin noticed the box and asked to see it. When he lifted a ruby-studded brooch, his face went pale. “Do you know what this is worth?” he asked.

I guessed maybe $150.

He shook his head. “Closer to $150,000.”

Hidden among the cheap trinkets were real antiques—gold, gems, pieces of serious value. Alicia had never imagined her mother owned anything like that.

Now I’m torn. Maybe the jewelry legally belongs to Alicia. But a quieter part of me remembers the way my stepmom looked at me—gentle, hopeful—and I can’t shake the feeling she wanted me to have this. Not for the money, but for the bond she never got to say out loud.