Diamond Lessons

When I turned twenty-five, I thought I'd already lived through a quarter of my lifetime, like a video game character whose health bar was being slowly depleted until a KO popped up in angry red letters. I believed being single at twenty-five—when most of my friends and neighbors my age were married and starting families—meant I had failed somehow for not wanting the same thing. Often, my mind drifts to my parents' story and their engagement at just twenty and nineteen years old. What were they thinking? What were their hopes? What were they sacrificing?

Life has a funny way of teaching us lessons—sometimes it's like an old, wiry-bearded coot beating us over the head with a stick yelling, "Why aren't you getting this yet?" and other times it's like a gentle breeze that pushes us toward self-discovery. Often, life's greatest lessons come not from a person, but from an object, or in my case, a diamond smaller than a 1X1 LEGO brick.

My parents were high school sweethearts who grew up in Orange County and Anaheim, California. Their proposal story is an unusual one, involving a greasy Taco Bell instead of a romantic sunset at the beach. They spent New Year's Day together digging their toes in the sun-warmed sand, boogie-boarding on the chilly waves, and sneaking kisses when no one was looking before deciding on the fine cuisine of Taco Bell for lunch.

Jane's stomach rumbled as she watched a semi-cold Mexican pizza plop onto a tray and large Mountain Dew leave the counter with a hungry customer.

Gary studied the menu, vacillating between trying something new or going with his classic order of three soggy "crunchy" tacos.

"Will you just order already? You know you're going to get the same thing you always get."

Gary spun around, sticking a hand inside the pocket of his cargo shorts. "If you don't quit being grumpy, I won't give you this ring." He pulled out a black velvet box. His mustache twitched as he smiled, watching the love of his life forget her hunger to ogle over the engagement ring and the thousands of promises it held within its slim band. The patrons of Taco Bell clapped.

The cashier blew her bangs out of her eyes. "Are you still going to order?"

Although the proposal story may not be romantic, the story behind the ring itself reveals a different tone. For months, Dad went into the local Christian jewelry store, steadily making downpayments on the ring. At twenty years old, he was helping his father run a vitamin company that would one day be his. He didn't have much yet, but he refused to let that stop him from marrying the woman he loved by promising her a diamond and a future together.

The tradition of engagement rings dates to the ancient Egyptians in which braided reeds were shaped into a circle—a symbol of eternity—and exchanged. It wasn't until 1477 when diamonds appeared on rings, when that show-off Archduke Maximilian of Austria proposed to Mary of Burgundy with a ring containing flat pieces of diamonds in the shape of an "M."

Dad wasn't an archduke, and he didn't choose an engagement ring with diamonds in the shape of a J. He chose a design that would be even better, something that would always stick with Jane. The miniscule diamond sat underneath an olive leaf and a dove, representing God's promise to Noah in Genesis that life would return to Earth again after the great flood: a symbol of faithfulness.

It turns out promises of forever expire after twenty-years.

After two decades of marriage and a divorce process that caused Mom to lose twenty pounds, she held onto that quarter karat diamond, tucking it away in the back of her jewelry armoire. The young love between her and Gary was lost and the wedding band sold, but the diamond remained like a battle scar, serving as a poignant reminder of what could have been and of what her life used to be.

Why do we keep objects that remind us of relationships or memories that we know will never be recreated? Are we trying to replicate the emotions we felt when we first received that object: the joys of feeling like we are worthy of love, the excited nervousness of an unseen yet promising future, or the sense of security that comes along with a treasured friendship or relationship? We hate feeling powerless, but perhaps the thing we struggle with most is that we can't control people, and that we must acknowledge that their decisions affect our future as much as our own.

On my twenty-first birthday, Mom gave me a small yellow and turquoise bag, decorated with paisleys. Unsnapping the button and sliding the zipper I found a tiny diamond tucked inside.

"This was the diamond from my wedding ring from your dad. I want you to have it."

I held the diamond in my palm, straightening out the golden chain it hung on, feeling the weight of my family history. I was flattered she thought of me and that out of her three daughters, I was the one she entrusted it. But I couldn't help but wonder if she gave me the diamond as a reminder to not make the same mistakes she had. Or maybe it was a physical symbol of the hope parents pass down to their children: the belief that their child's future will be better than their own.

"Thanks, Mom. I love it."

With a new relationship comes a sense of security knowing someone is smitten with you (you!) to want to take care of you, to make you laugh, to make you smile, to make you miss them every moment you're apart.

I had my first relationship at twenty-three through Bumble. My first kiss was in the parking lot of Buffalo Wild Wings. I asked if I did it right.

Over four decades have passed since my parents' engagement inside a Southern California Taco Bell, but I found myself thinking of them that night. They were married for three years before I had even been kissed.

I broke up with my boyfriend six months later in the parking lot of Panda Express, too afraid to attach my future to a person other than myself. I was willing to hurt him before I let myself get hurt. I couldn't dare to repeat my parents' story because I was too afraid of the possibility of love wrecking my future.

Today, the diamond sits on its golden chain in the same pouch I received on my twenty-first birthday, with a knot in the chain the size of a thumbtack. I've never worn it, too afraid of losing it, or maybe of it inadvertently cursing my love-life. I used it as an excuse to stop trying at all.

Although my parents' marriage didn't end happily, it doesn't mean that they weren't grateful for the memories they created together. Despite the failed marriage, my parents stayed amicable.

When I see that diamond scintillating with my parents' history, I am reminded of the love they have for their four children … of every dream supported, broken heart mended, and memory cherished. The love behind the diamond has morphed into a different promise: a promise of parental love that will last into eternity.

From sharing chocolate-covered graham crackers and having water in a coffee cup at Barnes and Noble with Dad, pouring over the pages of my latest treasure on my path to becoming a professional writer, to a weekly tradition of Sunday evening cards with Mom and cackling over old stories like when she thought I asked if she was nocturnal instead of deer when we first moved to Montana, every memory has a vein of love flowing throughout it.

They say diamonds are forever, so then are the memories that come attached with the diamond, like the sunny New Years Day in 1984 when my parents chose to plan their future out of hope, not fear, inside Taco Bell. (Now that's really "living más.")

I hope one day I will be as brave as them.

For now, I'll start with getting the knot out of the necklace, so I can wear the reminder with pride that even in tragedy there's an opportunity for joy when we're brave enough to pursue it—even when it looks different than we thought it would.