Vignettes of Marriage #2: Her Ring

“I don’t really want to go to Home Depot without you,” he said, as if the idea itself exhausted him.

She flopped back on the couch, clawing at her sweatpants with exaggerated flair, like a cat resisting a bath. Her tongue lolled, her eyes rolled. She tugged at her oversized T-shirt—once her mother’s, now stretched thin from wear. Her mother—gone now.

He threw up his hands. “Fine! I’ll go by myself! Make the old man do everything! Can’t take you anywhere!”

She laughed too hard to answer, though she tried, wheezing and wiping at her eyes. He shook his head, grinning.

When they finally caught their breath, she said, “No, I’ll go. If you’re getting stuff for the garden, I want to have input. Let me just change.”

As she walked to the bedroom, he called after her, “And wash your hands too! Naaas-ty!”

He dragged the word out slow and round, like a yawning hippo. She was still smiling as she came back out, fresh clothes on.

He stood at the kitchen sink, sunlight pouring over his gray mustache and grizzled face. When he saw her, he pointed to the windowsill. Her wedding ring teetered on a slim holder, one careless nudge from the drain.

“I almost knocked this in,” he said, turning to her, eyes wide. “That’s literally five thousand dollars that could’ve gone down the drain.”

Later, she’d laugh at the wordplay. But now, her stomach turned.

Last night, while she was “playing house”—what she called sweeping, mopping, doing dishes—she’d slipped off her ring and set it on the sill, just for a few minutes.

She’d forgotten it this time.

She’d been too busy savoring the moment: her hands in warm, soapy water, the sun sinking behind the garden, rabbits hopping through the yard. The air fresher. The colors brighter. The dinner tasted better. Her husband shouting at the basketball game from the other room as she smelled his cigar smoke.

“Atlanta down two. Indiana finally in the lead!”

She soaked it in—the life she’d once imagined for Barbie and Ken: bunnies in the yard, tomato plants in the garden, dirty dishes, game-day noise.

So caught up in the dream she’d made real, she’d left the ring. It could’ve fallen in. Maybe a bird would’ve seen the glint, pecked at the glass, tried to carry it off. Maybe that was silly—but still. He had nearly knocked it into the drain.

It wasn’t just a ring. Or five grand.

It was everything it stood for.

Most wedding rings are about vows, commitment, permanence. This one was that too—but it was more.

Her first ring had been rose gold and morganite. A Pinterest-inspired pick from a younger version of herself: sentimental, swept up in trends, still learning who she was. An overthought, short-sighted choice.

But five years in—after her mother died, after she earned her master’s, after his parents and son passed, after the move—he insisted on a new one.

A real ring. Diamonds. Something lasting. A ring for the woman she had become.

She said she liked the one she had. And she did. But mostly, she didn’t want to seem like she needed anything.

So one afternoon, he surprised her—drove her to a jewelry store, no warning.

“Do you like silver or gold?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I guess I like both.”

He turned to the saleswoman. “Show us all the silver and gold rings with a center stone over two carats.”

She brought out a velvet tray lined with diamonds. But "the one" wasn’t on it.

It was still behind the glass.

“What about that one?” she asked.

The saleswoman frowned. “That’s 1.9 carats. You asked for two or more.”

“But...” she began. It wasn’t the size—it was the shape. The side stones. The delicate halo. The way the smaller diamonds lifted the larger one—like how all the little moments of their life had propped up the big ones.

He placed his broad hand—still wearing his late father’s wedding band—against the glass, leaving a print.

“Ma’am,” he said softly, “the lady likes that one.”

And just like that, she chose. Quickly. Clearly. Like a woman looking far into the future. A woman he knew would stay until the end.

Now, that ring—their ring—had almost gone down the drain.

She looked at him. What could she say?

“Oh my God, babe. It will never happen again.” 

As she slipped on the ring again, he muttered, half-smiling, “There. That’s more like it. Now can we go to Home Depot? My garden consultant’s on the clock."