There’s a knock on my door.

“Honey?” It’s my mom. “You’ve got to leave in about 20 minutes, OK?”

“I’ll be ready.”

“Your dad and I will be leaving about the same time to get good seats. Sure you don’t want a ride with one of us?”

“No, I don’t want a ride with one of you.”

There’s silence on the other side of the door. I know she’s waiting for me to say something more, but I keep quiet. Eventually I hear her walk away.

Part of me is ashamed of acting so juvenile. But I figure I can make it through this day if I don’t have to face them—meaning her and my father—any more than necessary.

Unexpected News
I take off the cap and put it back in the bag that holds my graduation gown. I guess I always knew that my parents didn’t have the greatest marriage, but they seemed to make it work. That’s why I never expected them to divorce.

That my mom had found somebody she liked better than my dad.

That my dad was changing jobs and moving a couple hundred miles away.

And that once I was at college, our house would be put up for sale.

I only learned about this when I accidentally opened an envelope addressed to my dad three days ago.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” I screamed at them.

“We didn’t want to upset you right before finals, before the parties, before your speech. This is a special time for you. We wanted you to enjoy it,” they told me.

And then, as soon as I’m out of the way, it’s, “Sorry—we don’t live here anymore.”

One last look in the mirror. There’s the charm bracelet from my boyfriend. He knows the situation. I sobbed to him as soon as I could. He was sympathetic, but I saw the thought flicker across his eyes: This stuff doesn’t happen to the right kinds of families.

Another knock. This time it’s my grandmother, and she opens the door for herself.

“Catherine, you look beautiful. But you already know that, I’m sure.” Only Gram could get a smile out of me today. With a hug, she hands me a long, slender leather box.

“I want you to have these, Cat,” she says.

Nestled inside on pale cream velvet is a strand of the most beautiful pearls I’ve ever seen. They’re soft pink and perfectly matched. Each one glows as though it’s lit from within. I hold them up against my collarbone.

“Gram . . . ” I can’t say anything more. Gram politely ignores the face I’m making in an effort to keep from crying again and turns me around so she can fasten the necklace.

A Sliver of Pain
“Your grandfather sent me these for our first wedding anniversary,” she says. “It was 1942. He was stationed in the Pacific. I was at home, eight months pregnant. Neither of us knew if we were going to be seeing each other again, if he’d ever see the baby. I can’t describe that feeling, Cat.

“Then I got his package, and he had a long letter in with it, explaining what someone had told him about the way pearls are cultured, right there in the warm Pacific waters. How young oysters are harvested, and their shells opened just a crack and a small sliver of grit put inside. You know, inside the shell, oysters are nothing but a soft, fleshy body. And when any kind of foreign object gets inside, it’s very painful.”

Gram smoothes down my hair and turns us back to face the mirror.

“Your granddad wrote that’s how he felt; like our separation and the war were a sliver of pain, just under his skin, all the time,” she continues. “What the oyster does with this pain is cover it over and over with layers of a smooth mineral. It takes a long time, but eventually that sliver of pain becomes one of these beautiful pearls. Your granddad wrote that he didn’t know how it would happen, or how long it would take, but he trusted the Lord could make the pain we had into something just as beautiful.”

That’s it. I’ve lost it. I grope for a tissue.

“Listen to me! Telling wise parables,” Gram says, when we can both speak again. She blows her nose loudly. “You’d think I was somebody’s grandmother. Cat, I guess I’m trying to say that I know you hurt, and I can’t tell you why it’s happening. All I can tell you is the many times in my life when I’ve held that necklace and remembered that the oyster couldn’t have made those beautiful pearls unless it encountered pain first. Didn’t Jesus compare the kingdom of heaven to a ‘pearl of great price’? Sometimes in life all you can see is the price you’re paying; sometimes it takes a while to realize what you’ve bought.”

We are both silent for a moment, arms around each other. “Enough from an old lady! You’d better go. Don’t forget to take your speech!”

I have time for another hug.

“You can tell me wise parables anytime, Gram.”