I proposed to my girlfriend during her family gathering, hands shaking as I showed her the ring I’d saved months for. She frowned and said, “Is this all I’m worth?” Then she walked out. I never saw her again.
Two weeks later, her father called in tears. Catarina had died in a car crash. At the funeral, he gave me an envelope with the ring and a note: I was cruel. You deserved better. I’m sorry.
Years passed. I worked, struggled, moved on. Then I met Amaia—kind, grounded, nothing like Catarina. When I proposed, I used the same ring. She said yes before I could finish asking.
A decade later, Catarina’s sister gave me her old journal. In it, she’d written: I wanted to say yes. I just didn’t know how.
I had the ring melted down, same diamond, new setting, and gave it to Amaia again—our version now.
Love, I learned, isn’t about grand gestures. It’s forgiveness, growth, and giving something broken a second chance.
