A diamond is the hardest natural substance on Earth. It’s also the softest thing on my hand. A single stone, shaped like a heart, encased in a stylish gold ring. It ends with a slight wave, making space for the heart to rest, much like the chest cavity housing the heart in our bodies. 

I was 14 or 15, I think, when I first got this ring. It was a time when I was obsessed with hearts, in all shapes, forms, colours, designs, styles, and everything else in between. My mom was concerned. My dad, I believed, just didn’t know. 

When I walked into my parents’ room that day, my father sat on the couch in the corner, smiling. From his trusted companion, the briefcase, he got out a small ziploc pouch and handed it over. It took me a little while, but I finally opened the bag. Out fell, on my hands, the most beautiful ring ever. My dad went into explaining the technicalities — the cut, the carat, the grade. My mind and heart registered just one thing: he sees me. It wasn’t my birthday. An exam result wasn’t out. It was just my dad. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d surprised me with an exorbitant gift. There was a stuffed toy when I was 8. Or maybe 9. A big, brown, fluffy dog that accompanied him as he drove in late on my birthday. He was late. But he wouldn’t have missed it.  

For most of my childhood, my father was touring. But he always made it home for my birthday. The precedent, my mom has often told me, was set on the day I was born — I came to the world crying and screaming, a few days before the expected day; two days before my father was set to return. He rushed back. 

He was always there for my birthday, until the day he wasn’t.  12 years ago, three weeks before my 22nd birthday, my father passed away. 

In the time that followed, the ring became a symbol of his love. A reminder of his “look”, scary enough to get my submission every time, or his beautiful smile that hid everything he’d sacrificed to raise a joint family. Or his hug, which was the warmest, strongest barrier against the world. 

And then, a few years ago, I lost the stone. Not the band. Just the stone. 

The ring stayed on my fingers, looking just like my life did – empty without its core. I couldn’t sleep or eat. I spent hours, days, weeks looking for the stone. From superstitious tricks to prayers, I did them all, just like I had on that one weekend that my father spent in the hospital. It didn’t work then. It didn’t work this time either. I stopped wearing rings altogether. 

Two years ago, the stone was back. “It’s not the real deal,” she said, but.. I stopped her. I looked at the ring, suddenly complete again – not original, not new, but a third thing. This ring is one of the last gifts from my father, and one of the first from my single mother.