The handbags my daughter will inherit

and what I hope she remembers

There’s a black Bulgari bag in my closet that I bought the year I turned 38. I’d saved for months knowing exactly which one I wanted and exactly where I’d buy it—at the boutique on the Champs-Élysées during our Paris trip with the kids. Caroline went into the fancy boutique with me. She was six but she still remembers the moment.

I’ve worn it a thousand times since then, and every single time I pull it out, Caroline asks, “Mom, where’s your purse from?” I spin around dramatically and say, “Ohhhh... this? It’s from Paris.” It’s become our favorite inside joke.

Paris 2021

I’ve collected a handful of handbags with stories for years now, not because I love bags more than anything else, but because at some point I realized they’re the only thing I let myself want without justification. Not shoes, not clothes, not jewelry. Great handbags. And even then, just occasionally. Just when something in me plans to mark a moment as significant.

The Bulgari worth a fancy spin

The bag I got when Brady was born (turns out the neverfull makes a great diaper bag). The white bag from when my first children's book published. The tote from just before my hysterectomy. The LV crossbody I bought when we took an unforgettable 10th birthday trip with the twins and my mom.

I could mark these moments a thousand different ways. A piece of jewelry, a planted tree, a journal entry. But I choose beautiful handbags because I love them, because they’re useful, because I carry them over and over, and because every single time I reach for one, I remember.

NYC 2025

I tell Caroline that someday these will be hers. She’s eleven now and already excited about her future collection. But I hope she inherits more than just the bags themselves. In the end, they’re just leather and hardware. What I want her to inherit is a life marked by intention—noticing when something matters and choosing to remember it in whatever way feels right.

She already knows the story behind each one. She can tell you which bag came from where, which moment it marks. She sees me save up, plan ahead, choose carefully. She sees that these aren’t impulse purchases—they’re intentional. Thoughtful. They mean something.

And someday, when these bags are hers, they’ll hold new stories. Her memories. Her moments. So when her daughter asks, “Oh mom, where’d you get that?” she can spin around and tell her about all the memories those bags hold.

Years from now, when she pulls out that black Bulgari, I hope she remembers Paris. I hope she remembers our inside joke, the spin, the smile. I hope she remembers that her mother built a small collection of beautiful things that held big memories.

And I hope she builds her own collection of whatever matters to her—bags or books or trees or traditions. Whatever helps her mark the moments worth remembering.

(I had our attorney put in my will that if she gives them all away one day, I will come back and haunt her for 100 years. 🤣👻 I’ve also thought about having a little note sewn into each one with the date and story. Paris, 2021. Just in case she forgets.)