The Ring That Shattered Two Hearts

My wife sent our five-year-old daughter into a supposedly haunted, abandoned house to recover her engagement ring from a past relationship.

Inside, our child was horrified by the blood-spattered walls. Frightened, she stumbled and tumbled down the staircase. A corroded metal spike impaled her tiny frame.

When I discovered her, she had already passed away. Her small fingers were still tightly gripping the ring, unwilling to release it even after death.

I broke down beside her motionless form, weeping uncontrollably as I embraced her.

Overwhelmed with anguish, I repeatedly dialed my wife's number.

When she finally picked up, her tone was irritated and detached.

"Quit calling me!" she barked. "David's daughter is about to go into heart transplant surgery. Don't ruin this!"

Her statement struck me like a thunderbolt. I gazed at my daughter's lifeless face, my heart shattering.

In that instant, a part of me perished.

I ended the call with my wife and dialed another number.

"Hello. This is Emily's father," I said, my voice quivering with fury and sorrow. "I'm phoning about the heart donation."

"I regret to inform you that we've decided to withdraw from the process."

If you took my child from me, you don't merit her heart.