Her Mother's Chanel No.5

She found it in the wardrobe three weeks after the funeral. Not the full bottle — a half-empty one, the glass cloudy with age, the cap slightly sticky in the way old perfume caps are sticky. It had been at the back of the top shelf behind a folded wrapper and two shoeboxes and a small bag of things that had no category except her mother's.

She picked it up. Held it. Did not open it.

Her mother had worn Chanel No.5 for as long as Ngozi could remember. Not every day — it was not an everyday perfume in their house, not at those prices — but on Sundays, for church, and for the occasions that required the good wrapper and the specific composure that came with it. Weddings. Funerals. Christmases. Meetings where her mother needed to walk into a room and be taken seriously before she spoke.

Some perfumes carry people inside them. Some inheritances have no price.

The bottle was from a time when that composure had been earned in full.

Ngozi stood in the empty bedroom for a long time. She put the bottle back. She could not open it. Opening it felt like using something that was not finished yet. Like the perfume was still her mother's — still waiting for the next Sunday, the next occasion that required it.

She closed the wardrobe.

A month later she bought her own bottle from BettyWhyt. The same perfume, a new bottle, something that was hers. She wore it to her mother's memorial service — the one the family held after the immediate grief had settled, when they were ready to celebrate rather than just survive.

She sat in the church in the Chanel No.5 and felt, strangely, less alone.

The bottle is still in the wardrobe. She has not opened it. She does not think she ever will.

Chanel No.5. A hundred years old. Some inheritances have no price.