I’m sad that the ring I used to steal from my mother is now rightfully mine

I was told by my mother all my life that I was like a magpie. She noticed this phenomenon when I began to steal her diamond engagement ring when I was about six. This beautiful ring was purchased in McDowells in Dublin in 1953.

On Mam’s dressing table was a small crystal spike where she placed her rings, and it looked like a skyscraper of colours to a six-year-old girl who loved sparkly things. But I was a discerning thief; it was her engagement ring I liked most.

I remember sitting on the pavement outside our house just before my Holy Communion. I had the ring on my thumb and was holding it up to the sunlight, watching it sparkle, when my mother called me in for my dinner. She must have seen me sneaking the ring into a pocket for she did a methodical search of them when I came in.

When she found her treasured ring she went berserk. Despite receiving several slaps, this episode didn’t stop me from subsequently robbing her ring for many more years to come. How I never lost it is a miracle.

When she made her will years later, to my horror she bequeathed the ring to one of my sisters.

While I argued that I loved it the most, my mother wouldn’t give way. I pleaded and begged to no avail, and even though my older sister kindly whispered to me that she would give it to me on the quiet, I could not be placated. I wanted my mother to leave it to me and not to get it by default.

Times change, as do people, and eventually, without pressure, my mother realised that her precious ring was better coming to someone who genuinely loved it (me), who would always appreciate it (me), and who would keep it in the family and be the guardian of it forever (me). She subsequently changed her will.

Upon her recent death, I became the custodian of the ring. The piece of jewellery I used to thieve as a small child now rests legitimately upon my finger.

I may have coveted it all my life, and I do love it, but as I hold it up to the sunshine and watch it sparkle, I wish that it was back on my mother’s hand.

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