You’re finally home from a day of shopping, errands, and kids’ sports. Just as you’re about to relax your eye falls on the fourth finger on your left hand. Where is your wedding ring? Your breath catches in your throat, and your heart pounds. Oh, wait! You put it in your pocket to put on hand lotion, silly you.
But it’s not there.
You check every pocket–jacket, sweater, pants. You search your purse and car, check pockets again, dump the purse and sports bag. You are officially a Terrible Wife. Okay, you tell yourself, you’ll get a secret part-time job and buy the same ring (ugh—two rings, the band and a solitaire), before your husband notices. Sure.
Weeks pass. You’ve retraced your steps all over town, and told a dozen clerks and managers your story. Everybody knows another idiot who did something similar. Somehow, that doesn’t make you feel better.
There’s one place you don’t bother with: Grand Park. It’s enormous. Four hundred acres. Every passing day means that some kid, parent, grandparent, staff–about a million total strangers—might have pocketed your ring, shredded it in a mower blade, or squashed it into the dirt.
But finally you call the number on the back of the Grand Park Fan Guide. You’re braced for a “my hairdresser’s cousin lost her ring and now she’s divorced” story.
Westfield Welcome was contacted weeks ago by the soccer mom who found your ring. You’re close to tears. Westfield Welcome does some digging and calls back. The woman turned it into the Westfield Police, and you can pick it up the VERY NEXT DAY.
You hang up and cry. Then you thank God that you live in Westfield, where honest and helpful people live and work. And you vow to never take that ring off again.
Written by: Myra Levine