The bucket was the prettiest pink you’d ever seen, and it smelled like fruit punch and summer. You begged. She said no. Something about rhubarb — which made absolutely no sense because rhubarb was that stringy sour thing from the garden, not this.
“It’s a drink for moms,” she said.
You didn’t understand. Until the summer you were one, sitting on a porch with your best friend, a cold glass of something pink and tart and sweet in your hand, finally in on the secret.
This ring is that moment. The one you had to grow into.
