When Adam proposed with a vintage sapphire ring passed down in his family, I thought it was mine forever. But during dinner at his parents’ house, his mother, Diane, cornered me while Adam was out of the room. She claimed I didn’t deserve the ring because of “where I came from” and demanded it back. Shocked and humiliated, I handed it over without protest.

The next day, Adam and his father, Peter, arrived at our home with the ring. Peter had confronted Diane and learned the truth, insisting the ring belonged to me because Adam had chosen me. Adam proposed again, slipping it back on my finger and promising Diane wouldn’t bother me about it again. I was relieved, but the sting of her words lingered.

Two weeks later, Adam convinced me to return for dinner, saying Diane wanted to apologize. In the kitchen, she admitted she’d been selfish and wrong, acknowledging that I was part of the family. I told her I wasn’t giving the ring back, and she assured me she wouldn’t ask again. There was a tentative truce, though trust would take time.

Since then, Diane has treated me with more respect, even offering to show me other family heirlooms someday. Peter remains my strongest ally, gifting me a family photo album with the ring’s history. I added my own photo — my hand in Adam’s, sapphire glinting — because love made it mine. Just as love, not blood, makes a family.