I have a wedding ring tucked away in my top drawer underneath the socks. It’s an eternity band of tiny diamonds. I used to think if I wore it around my finger, it would bring me a husband. My beloved grandmother bequeathed it to me. We used to talk about marriage, and she advised me not to settle.
I was 30 and single when my grandmother died. I was excited to wear her ring, but my mother refused to turn it over, even though I had become the rightful owner. “You’re not married,” she said. “It isn’t right.” It took five years of arm twisting to get the ring. And at the time, it seemed to my mother (and maybe me too) that it was a kind of defeat.
Update:
Thanks, Kady, for commenting on this post, and making me realize I’d left things hanging in gloom. Let me clarify that I now proudly wear my grandmother’s ring. It sparkles on the third finger of my right hand, where it fits best. But the ring is old and fragile, so I take it out only on special occasions.