The Ring

 

The Ring

Every family has a story about an heirloom—something prized, coveted, and often contested. In mine, it was my mother’s jewelry. Let me set the stage.

During his time in Vietnam, my father made several trips to Hong Kong, each one resulting in a new piece of jewelry for my mother. He’d developed a rapport with a jeweler there, whom he visited first thing in the morning when the shops opened. In Hong Kong tradition, the first sale of the day was considered auspicious; if it went well, the whole day would be prosperous. Dad would choose a stone, select a setting, and on his next trip, he’d return to pick up the finished piece, starting the process all over again. He loved that jeweler.

Over the months, my mother’s collection grew to include black star sapphires, large smoky topaz, strands of pearls, a color-changing sapphire ring, jade bracelets, pearl earrings, and an assortment of other treasures. Among them was a particularly striking ring—a large green stone set in gold, encircled by pearls. We never knew exactly what type of stone it was, but it was enormous, nearly the size of an egg, and reached the knuckle when worn. It was a cocktail ring in every sense, the kind of piece that demanded attention.

When my mother passed, her jewelry was distributed among family members. And this is where things took a turn. Before she died, my sister helped herself to some of the pieces, throwing the entire distribution off balance. It infuriated me, though I managed to retrieve two pieces that meant the most: the color-changing sapphire ring that my mother often wore and that bold green stone ring. Mom didn’t wear them much in her final years, especially as dementia took its toll, but it wasn’t about her wearing them—it was about the principle.

Fast forward fifteen years, and I decided to get the rings appraised for insurance purposes. That’s when my father shared an incredible story. He told me about the time he’d ventured to a dig site off the coast of Vietnam, where a friend introduced him to a man emerging from a hole in the ground with a bag of stones. Dad, never one to miss an opportunity, ended up with one of those stones, which he took to a jeweler in Okinawa to be cut. The image of him on some rickety dirt road, meeting a guy in a hole to buy gemstones, still makes me smile.

This stone—this amethyst-like gem—was special. It changed colors, shifting between deep purple, rich pink, and slate blue. Intrigued, I Googled color-changing stones and discovered that it might be a rare color-changing sapphire. My heart raced. If true, the stone could be worth over $20,000 given its size. Suddenly, I had visions of untold fortune sitting in my jewelry box. And, the green stone looked very close to a Paraiba Tourmaline, pricing at over $100,000.

I decided to have it appraised. The big green ring, too—why not? Both were set in heavy 24k gold, after all.

The appraiser ran some tests, and to my surprise, neither stone was what we thought. The color-changing "sapphire" turned out to be a spinel. A color-changing spinel, yes—but not the genuine sapphire I had imagined. And the massive green stone? Spinel as well. The pearls surrounding it were real, but the stone? Not so much.

I couldn’t help but laugh. I could picture my dad walking into that jeweler’s shop in Okinawa, admitting he had no idea what type of stone he had, but wanting something nice for his wife. The jeweler, realizing my dad didn’t know the true value, likely swapped the stone with something far less valuable. And his "friend" in Hong Kong? Probably did the same. My father had walked away thinking he’d secured precious gems, none the wiser for over fifty years.

And you know what? I still wear the ring, and I wear it proudly. It may not be worth $20,000, but it still looks incredible. Someday, I’ll wear it to my dad’s funeral, and I’ll flash it in front of my sister, knowing full well that she still thinks it’s real.

And no, I’m not telling her it’s a fake.