ADVERTISEMENT
I Returned a Lost Diamond Ring at the Supermarket. The Next Day, a Man in a Black Mercedes Knocked on My Door
An older woman hurried toward us, her hands shaking as she searched the floor. Papers spilled from her purse. Her face was pale with panic.
Her eyes locked on my hand as I pulled the ring from my pocket.
She gasped. Not loudly. Deeply. Like someone who had been holding her breath for far too long.
“My husband gave me that,” she whispered. “On our fiftieth anniversary. He passed three years ago.”
Her hand hovered near the ring, afraid to touch it.
“I didn’t even feel it fall,” she said. “I only noticed in the parking lot.”
When she finally took it, she pressed it to her chest. Relief washed over her face, followed by tears she tried to hide.
She looked at my children, suddenly quiet, watching her with solemn curiosity.
“They’re yours?” she asked.
“All four,” I said.
She smiled softly. “They’re being raised with love.”
She touched my arm, thanked me again, and disappeared down the aisle.
