I always knew my mom’s things might cause problems one day. Not because they were expensive, but because they were a part of her. As time passed, people seemed to forget that.
My mom died when I was 12. I’m 26 now, and the only things I’ve really kept from her, besides memories, are her belongings—her jewelry, wedding ring, and little watch. I’ve had to protect them more than anyone should have to protect memories. I just never expected my own dad to ask me to give most of them away.
When I was 15, my dad gave me all of my mom’s belongings. Not because he got emotional, but because his girlfriend at the time tried to take some of them.
I caught her going through my mom’s jewelry box. When I confronted her, she tried to slap me. My dad broke up with her right away and apologized.
It wasn’t even the first time someone went after my mom’s things. Once, my aunt tried to steal a pearl pendant that Mom loved. I found it hidden in her purse, and that memory stuck with me.
After that, my dad sat me down and said, “Your mom always wanted you to have her things one day.”
I told him I’d take them to my grandpa’s house to keep them safe. He seemed surprised and asked if I wanted to leave some at home.
I laughed and said, “No. Every time I look away, someone else suddenly ‘loves’ her stuff.”
He didn’t argue after that, so I packed up everything and sent it to my grandparents’ house. At least there, I knew nothing would “go missing.”
But even with all that, I wasn’t ready for what happened next.
When I was 17, my dad met Rhoda, who is now his wife. We never got along, and I moved out as soon as I turned 18. Since then, they’ve had five kids together — two daughters, Lynn (7) and Sophia (6).
They got married last weekend, and yes, I caused a scene — but only because of what happened a couple of weeks before.
My dad sat me down for “a talk.” The moment he said he had a favor to ask, I knew it wasn’t going to be good.
“I was thinking,” he began, “maybe it would be nice to give some of your mom’s things to the girls… and to Rhoda.”
I asked, “What kind of things?”
He hesitated, then said, “Well, your mom’s Claddagh ring from when she was a teenager — I thought it would be meaningful for Rhoda to have it.”
I just blinked. But he kept going.
“The wedding necklace I gave your mom could go to Lynn, since she’s the oldest. And the bracelet I gave her when we were dating could go to Sophia.”
I just stared at him, speechless.
Then he added, way too casually, “And your mom’s wedding ring — the one I proposed with, the one that used to be your grandmother’s? Rhoda saw a picture of it and fell in love. She says it feels special, and that wearing it will make her feel like she’s my one and only now. It just feels right.”
He paused, then smiled like he was saving the biggest request for last.
“And to top it off, maybe you could give Rhoda your mom’s watch as a wedding gift. You know, to help you two finally bond.”
I let him finish. Inside, I was furious that he even asked me to give away my mom’s things. But I didn’t yell or cry. I just gave one answer, clear and firm: “No.”
He tried to insist it was “the right thing to do,” that it would show we were all one family.
I told him, “Then buy them their own jewelry. My mom wasn’t their family. And like you said, she wanted her things to go to me.”
I guess he didn’t expect me to stand my ground, because the next day, his fiancée called me.
“Can we talk?” she asked sweetly. “I just want to understand… what kind of daughter are you being to me right now?”
I was stunned. “Excuse me?”
She repeated, “What kind of daughter acts like this? And what kind of sister are you being to our girls?”
I almost laughed. “You’re 38. I’m 26. Think about that before calling me your ‘daughter’ or their ‘sister.’”
She sighed and said, “Look, if the girls had something of your mom’s, it would make them feel connected. Like they’re really part of the family. Isn’t that what your mom would’ve wanted?”
I stayed quiet.
Then she said softly, like it was something holy, “And the wedding ring… that one meant more to your dad than anything. He always talks about it. It’s beautiful. I should be the one to wear it now, don’t you think?”
I answered right away: “Too bad. The ring is mine. All of it is mine. You and your kids aren’t getting any of it.”
A few hours later, my dad sent me a long text saying I was breaking his heart, putting him in a hard position, and that he hoped I’d change my mind.
I didn’t.
When the wedding day came, I showed up with a polite smile. I gave his new wife a small, elegant gift box.
Her eyes lit up. “Wow,” she said, half-laughing. “You’re finally being mature about this. Your mom would be so proud.”
She opened it on the spot. Inside were old cleaning rags — the ones my mom used to wipe the counters. I had kept them, maybe just to remember her by.
Her smile disappeared. “What is this?”
I leaned in and said with a grin, “You wanted something my mom used and loved, something to make you feel part of the family. So here you go.”
Then I laughed, added, “Oh yes, my mom would be so proud of me now,” and walked out of that wedding like I owned the place.