My stepmother had a presence that couldn’t be bought, borrowed, or faked. She wore confidence the way some people wear designer labels—effortlessly, without asking permission. Her jewelry was never expensive, never curated from luxury boutiques or fine jewelry houses. Every necklace, bracelet, and brooch came from thrift stores, flea markets, and forgotten corners of secondhand shops. Bright plastic beads, cloudy glass stones, tarnished chains. And yet, when she walked into a room, she looked regal.
Her own daughter never understood that.
I still hear the remark as clearly as if it were spoken yesterday. “Mom is sparkling like a cheap Christmas tree.” It was said with a sharp laugh, the kind meant to wound and assert superiority. The room went quiet. My stepmother didn’t flinch. She didn’t defend herself. She simply smiled, lifted her hand, and gently touched the cluster of beads at her neck as if they were heirloom pearls pulled from a velvet-lined case.
That moment taught me more about self-worth than years of lectures ever could.
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