My grandmother died last year, and with her, I lost the last steady, gentle person in my life. When it was time to divide her things, my cousins rushed in and grabbed everything. They argued over furniture, jewelry, even old kitchen items they never cared about before. I just stood in the corner, feeling out of place in the house where I had spent so many summers.
When the executor finally gave me a small box, I could tell from my cousins’ faces that it wasn’t anything valuable to them. Inside was a plain, old ring with a cloudy gray stone. It looked like something cheap from a flea market. My cousins smirked and whispered to each other as they walked away with their fancy items
I put the ring on my finger anyway. It didn’t look special, but it belonged to my grandmother, and wearing it made me feel close to her. Still, every time I looked at it, I felt a bit guilty. I wondered if she expected me to want more—and if I should have fought for something bigger from her belongings.
Yesterday, while washing dishes, the ring slipped off my soapy fingers and hit the sink with a sharp clink. I gasped when I heard a small crack—it sounded like it broke.
My heart raced as I picked it up. The stone had split, and I panicked, thinking I had ruined the only thing I had left from her.
Then I noticed something.
Inside the ring was a tiny, rolled-up piece of paper. My hands shook as I carefully pulled it out. When I opened it, I recognized her handwriting immediately.
“You were the only one who visited.
The ring was your grandfather’s.
The stone is a 2-carat diamond.
I made it look cheap so no one would take it from you.
Love always.”
Tears filled my eyes as I sank to the kitchen floor, holding the broken ring to my chest. I cried—not for the diamond or the secret, but for the love she had left me, even after she was gone.