When my mother-in-law died, I didn’t feel grief—just relief. For ten years, she never liked me. But at her memorial, my husband handed me a velvet box. Inside was a sapphire necklace engraved with my initials, L.T. A letter explained: “I hated you not for who you were, but for what you reminded me of—my younger self, before I gave up my dreams. I feared my son would ruin you the way his father ruined me. I judged you instead of loving you, and I regret it.