The next morning, Mark left for work at six-forty.
He kissed my cheek.
“Love you, Lee.”
“Love you too.”
Lee was his private nickname for me.
Nobody else called me that.
As soon as his truck disappeared down the street, I went upstairs.
I stood in front of his dresser for several minutes.
Part of me felt ashamed.
I was fifty-one years old.
I’d been married for more than half my life.
And there I was, preparing to search my husband’s belongings.
Finally, I opened the top drawer.
His grandfather’s wooden box sat in its usual position behind his socks.
I lifted the lid.
Inside lay his old gold wedding band.
The tiny repaired seam was still visible.
I picked it up.
Turned it over.
And stared.
This was the ring he’d stopped wearing twelve years earlier.
It hadn’t gone anywhere.
So whatever had created the mark on his finger was another ring entirely.
