My husband died in a work accident. The family who disowned him for not becoming a doctor wasn’t there for him. And they weren’t there for me.
At the funeral I paid for, his brother made one DEMAND:
“So… when are you giving the ring back?”
I froze. We were standing right next to the open grave.
“The ring?” I whispered.
“Yes, the heirloom ring,” the brother sneered. “Grandmother’s sapphire. He took it when he left. It stays with the family. It’s worth a fortune.”
I slowly took the ring off my finger. The brother smirked, holding out his greedy hand.
“You mean this one?” I asked.
“Yes. Give it here. It doesn’t belong to you.”
“You should know,” I said, my voice loud enough for their parents to hear, “Mark sold that ring five years ago. He used the money to pay for the surgery you refused to help him with when you cut him off.”
The brother’s hand dropped. His face went pale. “What?”
“This ring,” I said, holding it up to the light, “is a $40 piece of glass he bought at a pawn shop. He wore it because he loved me, not because he cared about your status.”
I tossed the cheap ring into the dirt at the brother’s feet.
“If you want it so bad, take it. It’s worth about as much as your grief.”
I turned around and walked to my car, leaving them standing in the silence of their own shame.
