It’s the stress, I tell myself, sinking down on the edge of the bed. I curl forward with my arms pressed hard against my stomach and my head low.
Stress, confusion, fear for Deanna, and all the hard, angry, lonely emotions wrapped up in that dusty little black velvet box that’s so old the soft outer surface has started wearing off.
I can’t even stand to open it, to look at the gleam of silver and diamond inside, to remember the broken promise that ring represents.
Swearing under my breath, I fight back my tears with all the stubborn strength I’ve built as a single mom raising a little boy for seven damn years all by myself.
Then I snatch up the box and shove it back into the suitcase, out of sight.
Out of mind? I wish.