I turned it over and checked inside the band. Tiny letters were engraved there, nearly rubbed away.
“To Claire, with love. Always. – L.”
“Always?” Milo asked. “Like, forever?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Exactly.”
The word hit harder than I expected.
I pictured someone saving up for it. A proposal. Decades of wear. Taking it off to wash dishes. Sliding it back on. Again and again.
This wasn’t just jewelry.
This was somebody’s whole story.
And I’d be lying if I said my mind didn’t go somewhere ugly.
Pawn shop.
Groceries. Shoes without holes. A light bill paid on time.
I stared at the ring.
“Dad?” Nora said quietly.
“Yeah?”
She studied my face. “Is that someone’s forever ring?”
It was the way she said it.
I exhaled slowly. “Yeah. I think it is.”
“Then we can’t keep it.”
“No,” I agreed. “We can’t.”
That night, after drying it carefully with a dish towel, I set the ring on top of the fridge—high enough to stay safe while I figured out how to do the right thing.
When the kids were asleep, I sat at the kitchen table and called the thrift store.
“Thrift Barn,” a guy answered.
“Hey, it’s Graham. I bought a washer today. Sixty bucks, ‘as is.’”
He snorted. “It die already?”
