Last Friday was Grandparents’ Day at Georgia’s school, her first one since losing my mom, her beloved Gigi, this spring.

At first, she was nothing but excited about the day – her godmother and her grandfather would be attending, and there would be donuts on the playground afterward!

But as it drew closer, the grief started setting in. The night before the performance, she burst into tears.

“I miss her,” she sobbed into my shoulder at bedtime. “She never would have missed this!”

“I know; I know,” I murmured. “I miss her, too.”

The next morning, as Georgia got dressed, I made a split-second decision. I removed the necklace I have worn almost continuously since my mom died, a pendant made from a cast of her thumbprint taken at the funeral home.

“Georgia, you can borrow this today,” I said, clasping it around her neck. “When you feel sad, just rest your thumb against it. But be very careful, OK? This is very special to me.”

She clutched it in her tiny fist. “Thank you, Mommy,” she whispered. “I will be very very careful.”

Well. I’m sure everyone can guess what happened next.

She lost the damn necklace.

I lost my damn mind.

But then I remembered my mom.

First of all, if anyone would’ve also lost the necklace, it would’ve been my mom. God love her: The woman lost everything. Car keys. Cell phones. $20 bills.

Second of all, almost 10 years ago, I lost my own engagement ring. My mom didn’t get mad at me. My husband didn’t get mad at me. They both told me it would be OK, that I didn’t do it on purpose, that it was replaceable. I still remember how comforting it was, when I felt bad enough already, to know that the people who loved me most weren’t adding to my stress by guilt-tripping me about something that was already done. (It actually turned up in my work parking lot several days later.)

So I took a deep breath and decided there was no better way to honor my mom than by being the kind of mom she would be proud of.

I went into Georgia’s room and told her I forgave her. That I was disappointed and frustrated that she had lost my necklace, but that it wasn’t the end of the world.

And it’s not. My mom would always shrug and say, “Ehhh, it’s only money,” and in this case, it really is only money. My mom’s thumbprint is scanned and saved and on file at the funeral home, and the necklace can be replaced.

This time, though, I’m ordering an extra one so that Georgia can have one of her very own … because nothing is more valuable than a second chance.