Alice O’Dell — Upper School English Teacher, The Summit Country Day School, Cincinnati, Ohio

The moment she gives me the charm a fluttering idea settles — I own my own house. The charm is a silver house about the size of a sugar cube, green and red enamel on one side with a tiny heart that fills the front door. My real house is not so symmetrical, not so colorful — but small and charming and full of heart.

I’ve been saving it until you closed, Mom says across margaritas at El Rancho Grande — we rushed over after the final signatures to make happy hour. Yellow tissue paper catches a drip from my chilly glass as the tiny house rests on my fingers. Until this moment I have not considered that my house means more than a safe environment for me and Jonathan, a place close to his school and mine, a home close to my mother and sister.

The mini-house comes with a hook that opens and closes, so I add it to the necklace I’ve worn every day for a decade. It fits between the treble clef and the kairos cross. I make sure the side with the heart faces out. My little blue car hangs there — the Saab I bought after reading A Man Called Ove. The lighthouse, the globe, the two hearts — one for my ruby son, one with no birthstone. The tree of life that holds Dad’s hair.

My necklace is getting heavy, but that tiny charm lifts me. I think of the hardwood floors. Perhaps, that wall-sized National Geographic map of the world for the living room. The pergola in spring. . . .

Thank you, Mom. We clink our salt-rimmed glasses.