“Mom! Mom! What is this?!”
I rushed in.
She was pressing her fingers against the inside seam. I felt it too—a small, round shape hidden in the lining. My hands shook as I carefully tore the stitches open.
A gold ring slipped into my palm.
I froze.
In that instant, memory flooded back.
Right after buying me that dress, Mom had panicked over “losing” her earrings. Then her wedding ring. Then the pendant her grandmother had given her.
One by one, her treasures disappeared.
She hadn’t lost them.
She had sold everything she owned to buy me that dress.
Everything—except this.
She had hidden her most precious heirloom where it would stay safe. Waiting. Trusting that one day, when I was ready, when life had carried me forward, it would find its way back to me.
I pressed the ring to my chest and cried—not from grief this time, but from awe.
My mother had known.
Known I’d survive. Known I’d have a daughter of my own. Known that love, real love, never disappears.
Sometimes, it just waits quietly in the seams, until the right moment to be found.
