““She points at my necklace. “What is that?” I reach up and touch the small silver claddagh Celtic cross I have worn since I was six, tracking the grooved outline of the heart with my finger. “An Irish cross.” “You’re not allowed to bring keepsakes with you on the train.” My heart is pounding so hard I believe she can hear it. “It was my gram’s.” The two women peer at the cross, and I can see them hesitating, trying to decide what to do. “She gave it to me in Ireland, before we came over. It’s—It’s the only thing I have left.” This is true, but it’s also true that I say it because I think it will sway them. And it does.””
