It's more than a ring. It's a quiet tribute. To her laughter. To us. To the girl who once handed me a crumpled drawing of a cat wielding drumsticks, cheeks flushed, because she had a ridiculous, beautiful crush on "the boy with the cool sketchbook.""
Mom lets out a low whistle. "She's gonna love that."
Dad leans forward. "That's the first thing she ever drew for you, isn't it? That ridiculous drum-cat."
"Yeah," I say, a little breathless from all the emotion bubbling under my skin. "She's weird in the best possible way. Names her cats like they're nobility, Sir Whiskerton the Third, Duchess MeowMeow of House Fluff, and she gives them horoscopes. I swear to God, she told me once we had to cancel a date because one of them was having 'a sensitive Pisces moon day.'"
Mom laughs through her tears, shaking her head like she's both bewildered and charmed. "She sounds like someone who brings color into a room."
"She does," I say. "She makes everything lighter. Fun. She makes me laugh until my ribs hurt, and she never lets me sit in silence too long if she thinks something's wrong. She just—knows."
"She has green eyes," Mom adds softly, glancing down at the little velvet box in my hand.
I nod. "Yeah. That's why the stone. The emerald. I learned that from Dad."
Dad, standing quietly just off to the side, looks up at that, his eyebrows raised.
"Oh yeah?" he says, crossing his arms, clearly trying not to smile.
"Yeah," I grin. "with your fifty shades of brown and we all know why."
He rolls his eyes, though it's affectionate. "Brown looks good on me."
Mom gives him a look.
He shrugs. "What? It reminds me of her. Sue me."
"You told me once," I say, mimicking his deeper voice, "'I like having her on me somehow.'"
Dad groans, muttering, "Jesus, I forgot I said that."
"I didn't," I smirk. " Irreversible damage."
They both laugh, Mom wiping at her cheeks again, then stepping closer. She reaches up and touches my face the way she always has like she's smoothing back time and trying to memorize the man I became.
"You're steady," she says, voice full of a mother's kind of awe. "Patient. Kind. Stubborn, but soft in the right places and you stayed open... even when it would've been easier to shut down. I'm proud of the man you became."
Dad nods beside her, quieter, but there's that familiar lopsided smile he only wears when his heart's full.
"You didn't just grow up," he says. "You showed up. For her. For your sisters. For yourself and if you ask me, that's the kind of man worth saying yes to."
My throat tightens, and I have to look away for a second. The weight of what they're saying settles over me, grounding me. Making this moment feel even more real.
"Thanks," I murmur. "Both of you."
Then I open the box again, "Think she'll like it?" I ask.
Mom's eyes well up again. Dad just grins and says, "If she doesn't, I'll take it. Very regal. Could be my new 'emotional support' ring."
We all laugh, and for a moment, the world is warm and still.
And I know I'm ready.

Then he turned to me, more serious now. "You have our blessing, Jimmy. Of course you do."
He looked at Mom. "Right?"
She nodded slowly, her hand pressed against her heart like she was trying to keep it steady. "Yes," she said, her voice thick. "But Jimmy—be careful with each other's hearts."
"I will," I promised, meeting her gaze. "Always."
Dad placed a steady hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze—the kind of touch that said more than words. "Go build something good."
And I will. With her. The same way they did.
Because I remember them before everything fell apart, that doomed year where silence replaced laughter, where we all started walking on eggshells around the house, afraid to say the wrong thing. I remember how quiet the living room became. How Dad worked too much. How Mom smiled less. How dinner turned into something we rushed through instead of shared.
I remember not knowing what was happening, only feeling it. That strange ache when love is still there but buried under distance, disappointment, and pain. But I also remember the slow, quiet rebuilding, and that's the love I want to build. Not perfect. But real. Chosen. Again and again.
So when I slide the ring back into its box, I feel sure.
Sure of Carissa. Sure of myself.
Sure of the 온라인카지노게임 I come from and the one I'm about to begin...

*
My name is Jimmy.  I'm learning—every day—how to become a good husband. Not just the kind who shows up with flowers on anniversaries, but the kind who listens, who apologizes when he's wrong, who knows that love is a verb, not just a feeling.
I'm becoming that man because I watched my dad make wrong decisions.. and then stay long enough to fix them. I watched him lose himself for a while but I also watched him come back. I watched him choose us, every single day, even when it was hard. Even when we didn't make it easy.
I'm becoming that man because I watched my mom carry pain quietly for years, never loud or dramatic, but heavy all the same. She bore it with a strength that didn't announce itself with fanfare, but with a steady, unyielding resolve. I saw her stand up for herself after a while, slowly but surely refusing to fall back into the old habits and patterns that had trapped them both.
She became fierce in a new way, strong not just for us, but for herself. She chased down her dreams building a life that was hers and hers alone, piece by deliberate piece; and through it all, she made my dad work for it in a way that made him prove every day that he was worthy of her trust again.
I saw him change, because she never settled. She pushed him gently, demanded more than words, asked for the man she needed, not the man he used to be. Watching that taught me what love really means not just a feeling, but a choice. A continuous effort. A fight worth having.
That's who I want to be. The kind of man who holds steady under pressure, who knows the weight of silence and still shows up anyway. The kind of man who doesn't take love for granted, who knows it's earned over and over again, in small moments as much as big ones.
Because I watched my mom—my warrior queen—carry pain and refuse to let it break her.
I am Jimmy.
And I grow because I was raised in the wreckage and the rebuilding. I grew in the spaces between silent tears and slow forgiveness, between teary apologies and second chances.
I am Jimmy.
 I come from a family that taught me how to fall and get back up. A family that turned hard years into healing. A family that still shows up at dinner even if they argued over who left the fridge open. Now, I get to take everything I've learned, the good, the broken, the beautiful, and build something new. With someone I love.
A future that's ours. A future that I'll fight for, just like they did.
Because I am Jimmy.
And I was raised to love with both hands.