The broken ring
It looked old, dusty and without value when she saw it for the first time. But soon she knew it was a treasure that shined timidly in its threadbare black velvet little bag. It was a little golden ring wrought in an ancient style, with a solitary and very shiny grey stone wich had a little corner damaged. in the inside of the ring she saw engraved her name, again in ancient letters and a date: 1780.
Her father gave it to her in her sixteenth birthday. It was one of the few jewels the family had kept after the communist revolution, because it had almost no material value. But it had a lot of sentimental value. It was part of the history of the family for centuries passing from hand to hand among women sharing the same name.
She was very young, but she was another link in the family chain. The first one born in the exile. She had the family name so the ring belonged to her. Somehow that ring united her to her unknown family, far away, in her forbidden country. She didn’t care when people noticed and told her that the stone was broken. It was part of her family history.
The exile was also a broken stone in their lives. But despite so, the jewel still shined and was beautiful. Because they were together and they loved each other. And they treasured those little family traditions.
She wears proudly the ring and hopes that some day another girl with his name will inherit it. And when that girl learns the story of the ring won’t care about the imperfection of the stone, but will cherish its story.