“No,” I said. “We can’t.”
That night, I called the thrift store.
When I explained what I’d found, the guy went quiet. “We don’t usually give out donor info.”
“I understand,” I said. “But my kid called it a forever ring. I have to try.”
Paper shuffled on his end. “Older woman,” he said finally. “Her son had us haul the washer. She didn’t charge us.”
He gave me an address.
The next day, I bribed the teenage neighbor with pizza rolls to watch the kids and drove across town to a small brick house with chipped paint and a neat strip of flowers.
An older woman opened the door a crack.
When I showed her the ring, her whole body stiffened.
“That’s my wedding ring,” she whispered.
She pressed it to her chest, tears spilling freely. “My husband gave it to me when we were twenty. I lost it years ago. Thought it was gone forever.”
“Was his name Leo?” I asked.
She smiled through tears. “Leo and Claire. Always.”
She hugged me like we’d known each other for years. “Leo believed in good people,” she said. “He would’ve liked you.”
The next morning, sirens jolted me awake.
My front yard was full of police cars. Lights flashing. Engines running.
My heart slammed into my throat.
An officer stepped forward. “Graham? You’re not under arrest.”
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