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.
