Mr. Delgado’s office smelled like old paper and coffee. He didn’t make small talk. He set a small wooden box on the desk between us and slid it toward me. Inside, sealed in a little glass locket on a silver chain, was the gummy ring I had given Marguerite in April. She had kept it all those months. Beneath it lay a folded letter in her elegant, shaky handwriting.
My darling, it began, I kept my promise. You won’t receive a single dollar from me. I gave you something better instead. Then Mr. Delgado turned his computer monitor around so I could see it. “She also asked me to show you this,” he said quietly. “Her children have already seen it. They’ve stopped calling my office.” He pressed play, and Marguerite’s face filled the screen.
She recorded it in June, sitting in her chair by the window, with her doctor and a court reporter in the room. Clearly and calmly, she explained that she was of sound mind, that she had chosen to marry me freely, and that she had deliberately left me nothing in her will so no one could ever claim I married her for money. Her children’s lawsuit fell apart that week. Mr. Delgado said a judge dismissed it without a hearing.Then she spoke directly to me. She reminded me of the afternoon I told her I wanted to be a nurse, but couldn’t afford to finish school. Two months before she died, she paid my remaining tuition directly to the university, every semester through graduation. She had even bought my textbooks. It was a gift made while she was alive, so it was never part of her estate. Not one dollar ever touched my bank account.

At the end of the video, she smiled at the camera the way she used to smile at me over a book. “You said you didn’t care about my money,” she told me. “So I spent it on your future instead. Now go finish what you started.” Then she blew a kiss to the camera. I watched it three times in Mr. Delgado’s office. He handed me a box of tissues and left me alone.

I graduate from nursing school next May. Until then, I work nights at a hospice, and I always make sure nobody sits alone. I still read aloud to anyone who wants it. Marguerite’s children still don’t speak to me, but the rumors have stopped. I wear the locket every shift, tucked beneath my scrubs. Some patients ask what it is. I tell them it’s the best ring I ever bought, and the only one she ever wanted.