The persistence of a mother

This morning I received in the mail a package from my mother. Packages from my mother arrive with some regularly, more so now that she has embarked on clearing out her house. (More on that hilarious, futile and sometimes tragic endeavor, at another time. When I write another novel.)
This package came with a note: Dear Christine, Years ago, when Philip and I were in Greece I bought the enclosed, which I no longer wear – Hope you will like it and use it.
The enclosed, very securely scotch-taped to a piece of cardboard inside the box, is large dangly necklace with cabochons set in silver or a silver-like metal and all chained together to make a kind of V.
Here is the story:
She bought the necklace in Syria.Not Greece. I know, because I was there with her and we each bought one because they were amusing and very cheap.
The last time I was at my mother’s house, she showed me this necklace and asked me if I would like it. I said, No, thanks. I have one just like it and I never wear it. Please give it to someone else.
Hence: it arrives in the mail.