The first time it happened, I was seven. My grandma had mailed me a tiny ring for my birthday, an aquamarine set in silver. I clapped my hands and couldn't stop jumping when I saw it. It was the first piece of jewelry I had ever owned; like wearing a piece of the sky. I took it everywhere—presenting my hand to the world, palm down, as if I were queen. It was the most beautiful ring in the history of rings.
And then I lost it.
At first I hid under the covers. Crying and heavy with guilt. Then I looked all over the house for it. Quietly. I didn't want to tell my parents, thinking they'd be mad that I had lost something so expensive. By the end of the day, I was wrung out from worry.