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It was on a radiant afternoon in the summer of 2003 that my grandmother offered me her engagement ring because she knew I was getting married. We were sitting together on the terrace of our family’s house, perched in the Corsican mountains, silently admiring the view of our valley. Some rare clouds were casting moving shadows over the forest, while in the distance, the Mediterranean Sea was glittering in the sun. My grandmother took off her ring, admiring the white and blue lights sparkling with every slight movement of her hand. White for the diamond, blue for the sapphire, two precious stones sitting side by side.

I had admired this ring all my life, but she told me then the real meaning of this jewel, “Toi et Moi,” or “You and Me,” designed after the engagement ring the Corsican Napoleon Bonaparte offered to his fiancée. “The two stones represent love and hope, and also two souls becoming one,” she explained. “It was the engagement ring of my mother before me, but as you know, both our husbands died early and violently. This is the reason your mother refused to wear it. Maybe it is best not to share that part of its history with your fiancé!” she added with an ironic smile. I promised myself to keep that detail a secret.

When I got back to my life in Paris, I had the ring sized down and wore it constantly, despite the obvious risk of losing it or being robbed. “Jewels must be worn to be alive,” my grandmother always said, and I felt the ring was safer with me anyway. Summer came, and with it, a new journey to my family’s native village in Corsica, this time surrounded by my family and friends for my wedding. Because of an irrational fear of losing my ring during my honeymoon, I reluctantly left it in my Parisian apartment, watched closely by my neighbors. Or so I thought.

The day after my wedding, I was woken up by a call from my neighbors in Paris announcing that a man had broken into my apartment and stolen my ring. I still remember today the feeling of incredulity and despair that overwhelmed me. I was devastated. I was ashamed to have lost such an invaluable object. The irony of having lost it during my own wedding did not escape me. I wasn’t angry; I felt responsible. But most of all, I knew I had to tell my grandmother.

Later that day, I mustered all my courage to join my grandmother at her favorite place on the terrace, overlooking the valley. She seemed absorbed in contemplation while the familiar sounds of the village surrounded us. I shrugged off my apprehension and began talking to her in a voice strangled by emotion. She looked up at me and silently listened to my explanation, searching my face with an interrogative look, in what seemed a painful attempt to understand me, or even, as I would later realize, to recognize me. When at last I stopped talking, disconcerted by her lack of reaction, she looked away without a word and returned to her reverie.

My grandmother never spoke again and, during that summer of 2004, I convinced myself that I was responsible for her stroke. But it was cancer that took my beloved grandmother away from me a few months later. She was my favorite person in the world, a model of strength and positivity. Even though I am sure she would have forgiven me for the loss of her precious ring, I feel relieved she did not get a chance to know the truth.

Maybe in the end, I have broken the strange spell tied to that ring, and saved my husband from a violent death, as I like to remind him from time to time. Both my grandmother and her ring are lost to me forever, but I know I can summon them whenever I feel alone and sad. I just need to close my eyes to picture my grandmother’s warm smile and feel her contagious joy. In these moments, I swear that I feel the delicate “Toi et Moi” band around my finger.

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Vanina Bousquet was published in LR18. A native of Paris, France, she arrived in New York City with her family in 2018. She writes, “I am still fascinated by this magical city that I continue to explore with my camera. Thanks to my teacher at the New York Public Library’s Stavros Niarchos Foundation Library, Robin Poley, for her dedication and unwavering enthusiasm throughout this difficult year.”