I really thought I nailed it. I’d saved up for months. Cut back on takeout, skipped a trip to Atlanta with my boys, even sold my old vinyl collection. All for this ring. I went with a classic oval diamond, platinum band—nothing wild, but elegant. The kind of ring I imagined she’d wear forever. She said yes. She did say yes. But her smile didn’t reach her eyes. And before the night was even over, she casually dropped, “I love you, and of course I want to marry you… but do you mind if I pick a different ring?” Just like that.

I laughed at first. Thought she was joking. But she wasn’t. “This one just doesn’t feel like me,” she said. “We could go together this weekend and find one I really connect with.” It wasn’t about the money. She comes from a well-off family—suburban Connecticut, summer house in Maine type of vibe. Her mom’s the kind of woman who side-eyes your shoes and asks what your “people do.” So yeah, I was pissed. Not just because she didn’t like the ring, but because it felt like… something deeper. Like this whole thing suddenly wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. I kept quiet in the car ride home. She was humming to the radio like everything was fine.

But in my chest? That “yes” started to feel more like a maybe. And now I’m sitting here, looking at the receipt still folded in my wallet, wondering if this is the kind of start I want to build a life on. The next morning, I woke up to find Marina in the kitchen, scrolling through an online catalog of rings. She looked up with bright eyes. “I found a few I think are more… me,” she said. There was a hint of nervousness in her voice, like she knew how much this was eating me up inside but didn’t know how to fix it. I forced a smile and joined her at the table. The rings she pointed out were vastly different from the one I’d chosen—emerald-cut stones, vintage designs, even colored gemstones. One had a small sapphire in the middle, surrounded by tiny diamonds. “I can see why you like it,” I said, though I barely recognized my own voice. “It’s unique.”

Marina opened her mouth to speak but hesitated. Instead, she squeezed my hand and said, “I just don’t want to walk around with a ring that doesn’t feel like me. I don’t want us to start our forever with me pretending.” I nodded slowly. A part of me understood that, but another part of me was still hurting. I had poured my heart into that first ring. It wasn’t just a piece of jewelry—it was a symbol of all the sacrifices, the planning, and the dream of getting down on one knee by the exact spot where we had our first date.