Object-ives #28: My Necklace That Always Found Its Way Back

How a glitch in the matrix changed my life

Mar 27, 2026

silver L necklace — Sophie Berghouse’s beloved, often-lost necklace

I roll my eyes at horoscopes.

Tarot cards are for the gullible.

Ouija boards? Never.

A belief in the supernatural is simply not me. I believe in an evidence-based reality, not magic and mysticism. Yet there is one thing in my life experience I can’t rationally explain.

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Already a budding introvert in kindergarten, I preferred watching from the periphery while the neighborhood kids played tag. They shrieked and ran; I favored observing junk mail distribution to mailboxes. Presents for everyone, my five-year-old brain interpreted. Brilliant! I waddled home and drew a stack of Crayola artwork. Taking my ten drawings, I marched right over to the first house. I stretched to lift the big metallic lip and threw one inside. The heavy thud made me blink. Most went to neighbors I knew, the leftover to the ones I didn’t.

Perhaps I was prematurely entrepreneurial. If so, it would only be a temporary trait. Nevertheless, I added my block-lettered name in case someone wanted to reward my efforts with candy. It therefore didn’t surprise me when, several hours later, my mother entered the living room, the phone receiver between her cocked shoulder and a questioning face. “Yes, Lotte, I can send her over.” I only slightly knew our Danish neighbors, but I slid off my chair and fearlessly walked to the Kristiansens’ house, eager for my sugary compensation.

I found Lotte waiting at the door with a silver necklace, the pendant in the shape of an “L.” She knelt to give it to me and said, “This was mine when I was your age. Now it’s yours, Sophie.” She must have noticed my puzzled face and added, “We will say it stands for Love.” I prized it immediately. It was the first thing I ever earned. The necklace wasn’t a gift; it was my first paycheck. I didn’t have the terminology then, but I felt empowered.

The first time I lost it was in junior high school. The necklace was part of my daily outfit except during PE, where all jewelry was banned. While changing into gym clothes, I tenderly placed it on the top tier of the rusty steel locker. This time, it slipped into the cracks of the non-flush sides, the metal clinking on its way down. I lunged to stop it, but it was too late. The necklace slithered into whatever abyss was below. Stunned, I overcame my fear of critters and tried to pry my fingers in the gap. Nothing. I was distraught. That necklace was my identity. Over the years, it had been everywhere I was. I couldn’t believe it was—poof!—gone.

I trudged into gym class. The teachers, by some uncanny miracle, began class by announcing that the 40-year-old locker room would be renovated starting next week. Was I on Candid Camera? I looked around, but the others had already started playing basketball. On Monday, I stood at the changing room construction site with my outstretched hand.

Over the following years, the “L” pendant developed a green shimmer on its edges, saying a thing or two about my teenage hygiene. It was also a good indicator that my beloved jewelry probably wasn’t sterling silver after all. But its value was never in the material; it was the reminder of my first sense of self-value.

The second time I lost it, I was a high school senior. Over spring break, I flew to visit family in South Carolina. Upon arrival at the gate, my aunt expressed relief I had finally given up on that horrible necklace. My hand flew to my chest, but it was empty. “It must’ve fallen off in flight.” I said in horror, panicked.

I dropped my bags and ran back against the exiting crowd. Reaching my seat, I patted down the cushions and cracks. Empty. I wedged myself in the leg area to get a better view of the floor. Nothing. I knew I had to disembark the plane; the stewardesses were coming over to usher me out. I passed row after row of trash, mainly discarded wrappers and bunched-up blankets. Then something eerie caught my eye. About ten rows up from my seat, I saw a gray-silver pile in the aisle. I jumped on it. Could it be? The pendant had taken a blow from the many people filing over it. Even the angle of the L had changed to from 3 to 4 o’clock. But it was back.

Home from college one spring, I took our labrador retriever to a school field after hours. I pulled out a tennis ball and chased Brandey back and forth across the vast acreage otherwise used for soccer games. Walking home, I felt the breeze was just a bit too cold and my neck an ounce too loose. I slowly put my hand to my thorax which confirmed the “L” was gone.

This time there would be no way I could find my jewelry, not in four acres of grass. Yet I couldn’t abandon my necklace or my hope. I simply had to try, even if there was no chance of a supernatural coincidence. I turned around, approaching the field on my knees and parting the first grassy tufts. This was a futile approach. I admitted defeat after 15 minutes. I had to accept that it was gone.

I stayed on the ground a bit longer, lacking the energy to get up. Brandey raced over with the ball in her mouth, expecting another round. “Sorry, girl,” I replied. “Let’s go home.” I took the slimy ball and patted my pockets for a tissue. Nothing in the outside pockets, but maybe the inside pocket. I dug deep.

My hands felt something hard in the shape of an “L.” I was whole again.

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