Liam proposed in the park on a sunny afternoon, his hands trembling as he opened a small velvet box. I’d suspected something was up—he’d been buzzing with excitement all morning—but I never imagined he was planning to ask me to marry him. His eyes shimmered with emotion as he said, “Lily, we’ve been through so much together. I love you more every day. Will you marry me?”
Tears welled in my eyes as I said yes, joy mixing with a deep, quiet ache. I couldn’t stop thinking of my mom. She should have been there—smiling, laughing, maybe teasing me about finally saying yes. Instead, she was a memory I held close, especially when I thought of the ring she left behind.
It wasn’t just jewelry. The emerald ring was an heirloom—white gold, carved with vines, centered by deep green stones. It was a symbol of love passed from one generation to the next. A promise my mother made to me before she passed.
But when Liam explained he couldn’t find it and had bought a simple diamond ring instead, my heart sank. He’d searched everywhere but came up empty. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Something felt unfinished.
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