I dried the heavy brass ring on a dish towel, the metal cold and solid against my palm. I slipped it onto my middle finger, where it hung loose, sliding down to the knuckle.
“He is scared, Martha,” I said, clearing my throat. “We have been planning this since we were twenty.”
“And you have eighty-five thousand dollars sitting in the probate account from Dad’s estate,” Martha said, her voice dropping as she stood up to leave. “Are you absolutely sure you want to do this before the probate court even releases the funds?”
She left the question hanging in the quiet kitchen, her keys jingling as she walked out to her car. I stood there alone, twisting the loose ring on my finger, wondering if I was rushing into a marriage that would cost me everything my father had left behind.
