“Well, your mom’s Claddagh ring — the one she got as a teenager — I thought it would be meaningful for Rhoda to have it.”
I blinked. He wasn’t done. “And… I was thinking the wedding necklace I gave your mom could go to Lynn, as she’s the oldest.
Then maybe the bracelet I gave your mom back when we were dating… that could be Sophia’s.”
I just stared at him. Speechless. “And,” he added, way too casually, “you know the wedding ring?
The one I proposed to your mom with? The one that used to be your grandmother’s?”
I nodded slowly, feeling my chest tighten. “Rhoda saw the picture and fell in love with it.
She says it’s special… and she thinks wearing it will help her feel like she’s my one and only now. It just feels right.”
He paused, then smiled like he’d saved the best for last. “And just to round it out, I was thinking… maybe you could give her your mom’s watch as a wedding gift.
You know, to finally help the two of you bond.”
I let him finish. And as angry as I was at him for asking, for even thinking I’d part with my mom’s things, I didn’t let it show. I didn’t yell or get emotional.
I just said one word, instantly, without hesitation or softening it: “No.”
He insisted that it was the “right thing to do,” and that it would show we were all one family. I said, “Then buy them their own jewelry. My mom wasn’t their family.
And like you said, she wanted all her things to go to me.”
Apparently, he wasn’t expecting me to stick to my answer, because a day later, I got a call from his fiancée. “Can we talk?” she said, her voice syrupy. “I just want to understand…
what kind of daughter are you being to me right now?”
I scoffed. “Excuse me?”
“I’m saying — what kind of daughter acts like this?” she repeated. “And what kind of sister are you being to our girls?”
I almost laughed.
“You’re 38. I’m 26. Let that sink in before you throw around words like ‘daughter’ and ‘sister.'”
She sighed dramatically.
“Look, if the girls had something of your mom’s, it would make them feel truly connected. Like they’re really part of the family. Isn’t that what your mom would’ve wanted?”
I stayed silent.
“And the wedding ring,” she continued, her voice softening like it was sacred. “That one meant more to your dad than any other. He talks about it all the time.
It’s beautiful. I should be the one to wear it now — don’t you think?”
I didn’t skip a beat. “That’s too bad for you.
The ring is mine. All of it is. And you and your kids are getting none of it.”
A few hours later, my dad sent me a long text about how I was breaking his heart.
That I was putting him in a tough spot. That for his sake, he hoped I’d reconsider. I didn’t.
And then the wedding day came. I showed up, polite smile and all. When I saw his now-wife, I handed her a small, elegant gift box.
Her eyes lit up. “Wow,” she said, half-laughing. “You’re finally being an adult about this.
Your mom would be so proud.”
She opened it right there. Inside were old cleaning rags. The ones my mom used to wipe down the kitchen counters.
I’d kept them. I don’t even know why — maybe just to remember her by. Her smile dropped.
“What is this?”
I leaned in, grinning. “You said you wanted something my mom used and loved, something to make you feel part of the family. So here you go.”
Then I turned around, laughing.
“Oh yes, my mom would be so proud of me now.”
And I walked out of that wedding like I owned the place. Source: amomama
