Wear it carefully, love its not just gold, you know, theres a piece of our familys story in it. Margaret Parker cradled the velvet box as she passed it, hands trembling, to her daughter-in-law. It was my great-grandmothers ring. It survived the War, rationing, evacuation. Mum always said that, back in 46, someone tried to bargain a whole sack of flour for it, but Gran refused to part with it. She always said memories cant be traded for bread, not when we can endure a little hunger.
Sophie, my sons wife, elegant and always perfectly groomed, opened the case. A dusky, deep-red ruby gleamed in a heavy antique gold setting, catching the chandelier light. Far removed from the delicate bands favoured by young women these days this was a ring that had weight and presence.
Blimey, what a statement piece! Sophie said, rolling the ring gently in her palm. You dont see ones like this around much now. Very vintage.
Thats not vintage its antique, I corrected, grinning across the dining table at my wife and mother. Our son, Michael, newly full from dinner, watched on fondly from the other side, a smile tugging his lips. Mum, are you sure? You always said it should stay in the family.
Well, Sophie is family now, Mum said softly, though I could sense her nerves. It hadnt been easy, giving up her talisman, her symbol of those long-gone generations. But shed seen how much I loved Sophie, how hard she tried, and had decided: this was a gesture of goodwill, a signal that Sophie was accepted, one of us. Three years youve been married, always side by side. Its time. May it watch over your union, as it did for my own parents.
Sophie tried it on her finger. It jangled loosely around her ring finger, too large to fit snugly.
It is lovely, she said politely, though I knew Mum had hoped for more awe, more reverence in her voice. Thank you, Margaret. Ill take care of it. But I suppose Ill need it resized, else Ill lose it.
Be careful with the jeweller, Mum said immediately. Thats a very old hallmark Victorian, perhaps. Gold that old can be soft, tricky to work with, and you mustnt damage the stone. Best to wear it on your middle finger if that fits.
Ill sort it out, Sophie said, snapping the box shut and placing it beside her bag. Michael, we should get going got to be up early tomorrow, and the car payments due. Need to pop into the bank before work.
After they left, my mother stood at the window, watching as their shiny new SUV pulled away. Something felt missing in her chest as if she had handed over more than just gold. But she brushed away the melancholy. The younger generation had their own priorities, their own tastes but tradition, she hoped, would defend itself.
A week passed in the usual bustle. Mum, even in retirement, never liked sitting idle the doctors, the market for fresh milk, a walk in the park with her friends. Life in London demanded movement.
That Tuesday, the weather turned dreary: low grey clouds, a fine annoying drizzle that umbrellas barely kept away. Returning from the chemist, Mum took a shortcut through an alley peppered with little shops cobblers, dry-cleaners, the ever-present parcels shop, and, of course, a pawnbroker.
Normally, she hurried past those places with a shudder they smelt, she thought, of peoples misfortune. Yet today, something made her pause.
She caught a glimpse of mobile phones, then jewellery: rows of fine gold chains, wedding bands, old crosses tokens of hope abandoned for cash. And then her heart almost stopped. There, in the centre, on a velvet stand, was the ring.
No doubt another like it simply didnt exist. The deep, almost wine-red ruby, the unique gold setting like petals, the faint scratch inside the band only she knew about.
It cant be she whispered, a hand pressed to her chest.
Her legs went weak. Perhaps she was imagining things? They make so many imitations these days
She pushed open the heavy door, greeted by the stale scent of dust and cheap air freshener. Behind a glass screen, a bored-looking young man flicked through his phone.
Afternoon, Mum said, her voice trembling.
He barely glanced up. Hello. Buy, sell, or pawn? What do you want?
I Id like to see the ring with the ruby, please.
With immense reluctance, he unlocked the case and set the ring on a tray that slid through the gap.
Antique, he muttered. 56-carat gold, heavy thing, right rare these days. Real stone, tested. Price is marked.
Mum took the ring in shaking hands. The familiar weight, the warmth of gold. There the scratch, the old faded hallmark she remembered since childhood.
It was her ring. Only a week ago, shed passed it to Sophie with her blessing.
Her vision swam. Why? Only a week! Gran had chosen hunger in the War rather than give it up. But these two comfortable, well-fed, driving a new car
How much? she croaked.
Three hundred and fifty pounds, he replied, flat as ever. Thats just scrap price and a bit for the stone. Its an odd size.
Three hundred and fifty pounds. That, apparently, was the price of memory. Mum knew it would fetch several times more at an antique shop but here, in this soulless place, it was little more than old metal.
Ill take it, she said.
Got ID? The man visibly perked up.
Yes. And my card.
These were her rainy day funds, money tucked aside for real emergencies. Well, she reasoned, if ever there was a black day, this was it. As the papers were signed, she gripped the counter for support, mind racing with all sorts of dark thoughts. Had something happened? Accident? Illness? Why hadnt they asked for help, instead selling the ring? Shed have given everything, if only they’d asked. Why sneak and lie instead?
As she stepped out, ring deep in her bag, Mum didnt feel relief only bitter hurt. The rain beat down harder, but she felt nothing as she walked home, lost in thought.
Phone now, make a scene? Accuse, break crockery, demand answers? Tempting, but too easy. Theyd just lie, invent a story. Shed rather look them in the eye.
For two days, she stayed home, feigning high blood pressure, stroking the ring and apologising to it for being left among strangers.
On Friday, she called Michael.
Hello, love! How are you both? I miss you. Why not pop over for lunch Saturday? Ill make stew and those little pies you love.
Hi Mum! His voice was cheery, no hint of worry. Brilliant, wed love to. Sophies been asking after you, too. About two oclock?
Thats perfect, dear. See you then.
Mum barely slept that night, rehearsing the conversation, but the words always sounded too feeble for the betrayal shed endured. Did Michael even know?
Saturday, they arrived on the dot, beaming, armed with chrysanthemums and a cake. Sophie wore a new dress, chattering away about the weather, the weekend sales. She kissed Mums cheek, and Mum had to steel herself not to recoil.
Ooh, it smells wonderful! Sophie enthused in the kitchen. Youre a marvel, Margaret. We just live on takeaways nowadays work is so hectic.
They sat for lunch harmless chat about neighbours renovations, petrol prices, the latest silly news. Mum ladled stew onto Michaels plate and quietly watched Sophies hands.
Her daughter-in-law wore slim fashion rings, nothing like the family piece.
Sophie, Mum said, once tea was poured, why arent you wearing the ring? The one I gave you. Didnt match your dress?
Sophie paused, teacup halfway to her lips. Only someone watching closely would have caught the moment. Michael looked up, too.
Oh I put it away in the jewellery box, Sophie replied with forced ease. I said it needed resizing, didnt I? Im worried Id lose it. Planned to take it to the jeweller, but honestly, works been mad. Michaels been up late every night, same as me.
Yeah, Mum, no time for anything. Dont worry, its safe at home. Honestly.
Safe at home, is it? Mum echoed. In your jewellery box.
Yes, at home, Sophie said, a little sharper. Where else? Please, dont worry, its just a ring. Itll be fine.
Mum stood quietly and left the table, fetching the velvet box from the old porcelain soup tureen where shed hidden it. Returning, she set it gently before Sophie and opened the lid.
The ruby blazed under the light.
Sophies face went pink, then white. She opened her mouth but words failed. Michael choked slightly, staring at the ring as though at a ghost.
What? he managed, voice hoarse. Mum, where did you get that?
From the pawnbrokers on Kings Road, she answered calmly, sitting down. Internally, the turmoil had given way to a cold clarity. Popped in Tuesday. It was waiting for me. Three hundred and fifty pounds the going rate, apparently, for three generations memories.
Sophie stared at her lap.
We planned to get it back, she mumbled. Really. Next pay day.
Next pay day? Mum repeated. What if someone else had bought it? Melted it down, prised out the stone? Do you realise what youve done?
Oh, for goodness sake! Sophie snapped, tears brimming in her eyes. Its just a ring! Old-fashioned, too big but we needed cash fast! The car loans strangling us; Michaels bonus got cut! We didnt want to ask you youd only tell us off for not budgeting!
Leave it, Sophie, Michael muttered.
No, I wont! You hoard gold like some sort of dragon, and were scraping by! We thought wed pawn it just for now, get it back next month. No one would have known!
No one would have known Mum repeated quietly. Thats your worry, is it? That Id find out? What about trust? I gave you the most precious thing I owned.
People matter, not objects! Sophie retorted. Its just metal even if we sold it, what would it change? Would the world collapse?
Mum looked to Michael, who hunched over, face in his hands.
Did you know? she asked.
He nodded, barely lifting his head.
I did, Mum. Sorry. We really were short for the car payment. Sophie said it was only temporary. I shouldntve agreed, but
but you did, Mum finished, because it was easier. Because Sophie wanted it. Because a bit of family history wont settle the car loan.
She picked up the box, squeezing it tight.
Well, my darlings, her voice was steely now, youre right. Im old-fashioned, it seems. I just cant quite grasp how a set of wheels is worth more than family. Or how you can lie so easily, eating my cooking.
We’ll pay you back, Sophie muttered, dabbing her nose with a napkin. Every penny.
I dont want your money, Mum said, flat. Youve paid in full with your actions. Youve shown me all I need to know about your respect for me.
She stood and moved to the door.
Go.
Mum, dont be like this, Michael pleaded, reaching for her hand. We made a mistake, we were desperate, please were family.
Family dont behave this way, Michael. For family, youd give the shirt off your back. Now go. I need some time alone.
Fine! Sophie snatched her bag, scraping her chair across the floor. Honestly melodrama over a bauble! Youd think it was the Brinks-Mat robbery. Come on, Michael lets leave her to her treasures.
They left, the front door slamming. The sugary scent of Sophies perfume lingered unpleasantly.
Mum tidied away the cake none of us had touched, washed up, each movement automatic, steadying. Then she pulled out the ring.
Well, old friend, she whispered, sliding it onto her finger. You came back home after all. It seems it wasnt meant for everyone.
That evening, she sat under her reading lamp, watching the ruby glow softly, as if reassuring: Dont fret. People come and go. True worth endures.
Mum kept in touch with Michael, of course. He called, apologised, tried to mend things. She answered, cool but polite, though the warmth had gone. Something had cracked, like a teacup hopefully patched but never right for company again.
Sophie, when we did meet, was chilly, all but saying she was the wronged one, the victim of Margarets stubbornness. The ring? Not a word more about it. Mum wore it daily now.
One afternoon, half a year later, Mum bumped into Mrs Fletcher, an old teacher, on the bench outside their block.
What a lovely ring you have, Margaret, Mrs Fletcher remarked. So striking.
It was my mothers, Mum beamed, stroking the gold. Thought about passing it down, but changed my mind. Too soon. They dont quite appreciate it yet.
And quite right too, Mrs Fletcher nodded. Such things are meant for those who understand their meaning. Young people these days its all rush, change, everythings disposable: objects, feelings alike.
No matter, Mum said, gazing at the autumn sky. Perhaps Ill have a granddaughter one day. Ill pass it to her. For now, it stays with me. Feels safest here.
Shed realised something important love cant be bought with gifts, and respect cant be begged with indulgence. The ring had come back to her for a reason: to open her eyes. And though the truth stung, it was better than the sweetness of self-deception shed lived in until that rainy day, peering into a pawnbrokers window.
Life went on. She signed up for computer lessons, started going to the theatre with friends. She stopped pinching every penny for the children, deciding shed earned a little happiness herself. And that ring upon her finger was a daily reminder: she had an inner strength no hardship could wear down, no betrayal could crush. As long as she kept the family memory alive, she would never be alone.
