Those few words pulled us into a truth we had never imagined, showing us that what we assumed was simple forgetfulness was actually a quiet, intentional choice shaped by love and concern.
For as long as I can remember, Dad claimed he’d lost his ring early in their marriage. Life continued, and my mom accepted the story, though somewhere in her heart she wondered if its absence meant something more. The truth was gentler than anything we had pictured.
He spent his entire life working with his hands—fixing engines, hauling lumber, repairing fences. His fingers were always scraped, blistered, or in danger. He was terrified he’d ruin the ring or lose it, so instead of wearing it, he kept it safe. Seeing how carefully he stored it made my mom realize he hadn’t forgotten it—he had been protecting it.
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