When Adam proposed to me, he gave me a breathtaking vintage ring, an heirloom passed down through generations. It was a symbol of love, and I treasured it every day. But everything changed when we had dinner at Adam’s parents’ house. Diane, his mother, took issue with the ring, claiming it belonged to their family and wasn’t meant for “just anyone.” She demanded I return it, leaving me feeling small and insignificant.
Reluctantly, I gave the ring back, hiding my pain. The next day, Adam and his father confronted Diane. His father, Peter, had intervened, and Adam declared the ring was mine because he loved me, not because of family history. Adam asked me to marry him again, and this time, I said yes. The ring was a symbol of love, not blood, and that’s what truly mattered.
