When my sister Alicia died, I was six. Memories of her come in flashes—her laugh in the kitchen, the strawberry scent of her lip gloss, bedtime stories I barely understood were our last.
She was 17 when she died in an accident. After the funeral, Mom turned her into a saint. Her room became a shrine, and I was just the little sister left behind.
When I was 12, Mom let me help go through Alicia’s things. I found a simple silver ring with a blue stone. It fit perfectly. I asked if I could keep it. “It’s nothing valuable,” Mom said. But to me, it was everything.
For nine years, I kept that ring safe. It was my quiet connection to Alicia, a reminder that I had loved her too—even if I was too young to remember everything.
Then, last weekend, at a family lunch, my brother Daniel proposed to his girlfriend. And he used my ring—Alicia’s ring.
Everyone clapped. I froze. Mom smiled at me like nothing was wrong. Afterward, I confronted her. She said Daniel asked, and they thought it was “sweet.” When I reminded her I had cherished that ring for years, she brushed me off. “It’s just a ring,” she said. Again.
Daniel didn’t see the problem either. “You were six. You barely knew her,” he said.
I felt erased.
So I told him if he didn’t return it, I’d tell Rose, his fiancée, where the ring came from. He called me selfish.
Days later, I met Rose. I told her everything. She listened quietly, then took the ring off and gave it back. “It never belonged to me,” she said.
Daniel was furious. My parents called me dramatic and told me I’d ruined the engagement. But all I did was reclaim something that had kept my sister’s memory alive for nine years.
Now, with the ring back on my finger, I ask: Was I really wrong to want it back?