For as long as I can remember, Dad insisted he lost his ring early in their marriage. Life went on, and my mom accepted the explanation, though somewhere deep inside, she wondered if its absence meant something more. The reality was kinder than anything any of us imagined.
He had spent his entire life working with his hands—fixing engines, hauling lumber, repairing fences. His fingers were always scraped, blistered, or at risk. He was terrified he’d damage the ring or lose it altogether, so he kept it safe instead of wearing it. Seeing how gently he stored it made my mom realize he hadn’t forgotten it at all—he had protected it.
