I thought helping my grandma buy an anniversary ring would be one of the happiest errands we’d run all year. Instead, one stranger managed to turn a tender moment into something neither of us expected.
The living room table looked like a tiny bank had exploded across it.
Crumpled fives, wrinkled 10s, a small hill of quarters, and three envelopes labeled « Rings » in my grandma’s careful cursive. Grandma Margaret sat across from me in her favorite navy cardigan.
She was sliding coins into neat little stacks with fingers thinner than they had been last Christmas.
