The pawnshop owner offered me $50 for the wedding ring my husband had put on my finger thirty-two years ago.
I looked at him, then at the little velvet pad between us, and almost laughed. My grandson was lying in a hospital bed across town while his heart struggled to keep up, and this stranger had priced saving him lower than a used microwave.
“Ma’am,” the man behind the counter said, “I hear stories like this every week.”
“This isn’t a story,” I said.
My grandson was lying in a hospital bed.
His eyes dropped to the pale band of skin on my finger where the ring had been. “Emotional value doesn’t raise resale value.”
Something tired and old in me finally cracked.