Eric never slid his wedding ring off. My husband kept his wedding ring on every single day of our 22-year marriage. Not while fixing the truck, not while chopping wood, not even when grime got trapped under the band and I threatened to scrub his whole hand with a toothbrush.

One time, I caught him working on a carburetor with the ring still on his finger.

“You know normal people take those off before destroying them,” I said.

Eric looked down at his hand. “Then I’d have to remember where I put it.”

“You can’t remember one safe place?”

He smiled. “I’d rather keep promises where I can see them.”

I’d laughed at that. After 22 years of marriage, you stop picking apart everything your spouse says. Some words just blend into the background. I had no idea I’d recall those words so vividly later on.

Every summer, Eric took a week-long fishing trip with three buddies he’d known since high school. That year, the weather turned bad almost right away. He sent me photos of gray skies, muddy boots, and Pete scowling under a soaked tarp.

I texted back: “Living the dream?”

Eric: “You’re jealous.”

Me: “Deeply.”

Eric wasn’t due home until Sunday morning. Instead, his truck pulled into our driveway Saturday evening. I stepped outside as he got out.

“You’re early.”

“River came up fast. We gave up.” He kissed my cheek and reached into the truck bed.

That’s when I saw it. His left hand was empty.

“Eric.”

He noticed where I was looking. Something crossed his face.

“Where’s your ring?”

He touched the pale line circling his finger. “Lost it.”

“What?”

“Thursday afternoon,” he admitted. “Rain got really bad, so we started moving everything farther up the bank. Pete slipped. One cooler went over. Everybody was grabbing equipment. I didn’t notice the ring was gone until later.”

“You searched?”

“For hours. Pete helped. We went through the mud twice.” He seemed crushed.

I took his hand. “Hey. It’s a ring.”

“It’s my wedding ring, Kristen.”

“And I’m still your wife. We’ll find another one.”

His mouth twitched. “It won’t be the same.”

No, it wouldn’t. Eric had worn that plain gold band every day since we were 24. Even so, losing it wasn’t the end of the world. At least, that’s what I thought at the time.

Over the next two weeks, I checked jewelry stores for a matching one. Eric kept telling me to quit.

“Kris, you’ve looked at fifteen rings.”

“Seventeen.”

“That’s worse.”

I laughed. Not once did I question whether he was lying. Why would I? Twenty-two years had given me plenty of things to gripe about with Eric. He left cabinet doors open. He could doze off during any movie he’d chosen himself. He believed reading instructions before putting together furniture showed weak character. But he’d never given me reason to question his loyalty.

Then, two weeks after he’d gotten home, there was a knock at our door. Eric was at work. I opened it expecting a package.

Instead, a boy of about seven stood on my porch. Brown hair, worn sneakers, blue T-shirt with a cartoon fish on it. A silver sedan I didn’t recognize sat at the end of our driveway.

“Hi,” I said. “Can I help you?”

The boy fidgeted with a black cord around his neck. “Are you Mrs. Eric?”

I nearly smiled. “I’m Kristen. Eric’s my husband.”

He nodded, then reached under his shirt. Something gold slipped along the cord. The boy lifted it over his head and gently set a ring in my palm.

“My mom says he can have it back now.”

For a moment, my mind wouldn’t accept what my eyes were already seeing. Then my thumb found the small dent along one edge. Years back, Eric had dropped a cast-iron skillet. The handle caught his ring and sent it skittering across our kitchen tile. Same dent. Same ring. My husband’s wedding ring.

“Where did you get this?”

“My mom…” He pointed at the car.

The driver’s door swung open. A woman got out. My heart jumped.

“But Eric lost this,” I said.

The boy frowned. “Lost it?”

“On his fishing trip. He said it fell off near the river.”

He shook his head. “No, it didn’t.”

My fingers closed tighter around the band. “How do you know?”

“Because he gave it to my mom.”

The woman was approaching us now. She looked about 40, dark hair pulled back loosely. She was pretty—I hated noticing that.

“What’s your name?” I asked the boy.

“Jimmy.”

“Jimmy, how do you know my husband?”

“The diner near the river.”

The woman reached the steps. “Jimmy, honey…”

“I gave it back, Mom,” he announced.

“I see that.” Then she looked at me. “You’re Kristen.”

Not a question. She knew who I was. I didn’t know her at all.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Abigail.” Her eyes dropped to my closed fist. “I can explain. Eric gave me his address in case Jimmy was ever ready to return the ring.”

“Did my husband give you his wedding ring?”

She paused. “Yes.”

“When?”

“During the fishing trip.”

I looked at Jimmy. “Was Eric fishing with his friends?”

Jimmy shook his head. “Not all the time.”

Abigail jumped in quickly. “Eric really did come there with his friends. He met Jimmy at the diner Monday morning. After that, he left them for a few hours on several days.”

“To see you?” My voice came out harsher than I meant it to.

“No,” Abigail shook her head.

Jimmy grinned. “Me.”

I stared at him. “What did you do?”

“We went fishing.”

My confusion nearly drowned out my anger. “My husband left his fishing trip to take YOU fishing?”

Jimmy nodded enthusiastically. “Mr. Eric says Pete talks too much.”

A laugh almost slipped out of me. Almost. Then I opened my hand. The ring stopped it.

“Why did Eric give this to your mother?”

Abigail froze. “Kristen, maybe Eric should explain that.”

But Jimmy lit up. “Oh! I know why!”

“Jimmy…” she whispered.

The boy shrugged. “Because I didn’t believe him.”