I don’t even know how to start this without crying. I haven’t spoken to anyone about this—not really. My friends don’t know what to say anymore. And I’m scared that if I say it out loud, it’ll all feel even more real. But here it goes.

Three months ago, I lost the love of my life. Jake. He was 28. He was funny, patient, so incredibly kind. He proposed on a cold night in February with shaking hands and tears in his eyes, and I said yes before he could even finish the question. We were going to get married in the spring. I had already picked the flowers.

And then came the phone call. An accident. An irresponsible driver. He lost his life instantly. I still wake up at 3 a.m. thinking he’s in the kitchen making coffee. I still text him sometimes, forgetting he’ll never read it.

But what broke me even more was what happened after the funeral.

I was standing near the church steps, just trying to breathe, when Jake’s brother Jim walked over. I barely looked at him—I couldn’t focus on anything—but he put his hand on my arm and said, “So, uh… when do you think you’ll give the ring back?”

I blinked.

“What?”

“The engagement ring. Grandma’s ring. It’s a family heirloom. Stacy really loves it, and I think I’m gonna propose soon.”

He said it like it was no big deal. Like Jake hadn’t just been buried an hour earlier. Like that ring wasn’t still on my finger, burning against my skin.

I stared at him, my heart pounding.

“That ring was Jake’s. He gave it to me because he loved me. Your grandmother blessed it for us. It’s not just some thing to pass down like a casserole dish.”

He rolled his eyes and laughed in the most cynical way possible.

“Yeah, but… you can’t marry him anymore, can you?”

Those words. You can’t marry him anymore. They shattered something inside me.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just stood there, frozen, staring at a person I thought was family. My fiancé’s brother. A man who had just watched me bury my future, now asking for the only thing I had left of it.

I whispered, “How dare you,” and walked away before I collapsed in front of him.

Since that day, I’ve been getting texts and emails from his mom, his sister, even his aunt.

All polite on the surface—”we understand you’re grieving, but the ring belongs to the family”—but underneath it all, they’re just trying to take it from me.

No one has asked how I’m doing. No one’s come to sit with me, to talk about Jake, to remember him as a person. They just want the ring. The thing.

But what about me? What about the nights I spend crying into his hoodie? What about the wedding dress I never got to wear? What about the life we were building—brick by brick—that got smashed to pieces?

I sleep with that ring on. I talk to it like it’s him. It’s the only thing that still feels like us.

Am I being unreasonable? Am I selfish? Is grief supposed to come with conditions? Can love be undone just because one person is gone?

Sometimes I wonder what Jake would say if he saw what they’re doing. Would he be heartbroken too? Or would he tell me to keep it close, to never let go? I don’t know.

I just know it still smells like him. And I’m not ready to say goodbye. Not yet.

Source: brightside.me