The smile left his face first. Mine followed.
“I can say no,” he said. “I can go local.”
“No.”
“Mom, look at that number.”
Three days later, I stood in a jewelry store.
“I am looking.”
“We do not have that.”
I folded the paper. “We will.”
He stared at me. “How?”
“I said I will figure it out.”
Three days later, I stood in a jewelry store under lights so bright they made everything look cold.
That ring had once meant promise.
The man behind the counter held the ring up with tweezers.
“Are you sure?”
I nodded.
He named a price. I hated it. I accepted it anyway.
I signed the slip, took the envelope, and walked out without the ring.
That ring had once meant promise. Then loyalty. Then habit. By the end, it meant one open seat in a college class with my son’s name on it.
Jack never asked how I got the money together.
So I sold it.
Jack never asked how I got the money together. Maybe he trusted me. Maybe he knew better.
The years after that were built out of small calls and smaller reassurances.
“Mom, I think I failed accounting.”
