“Some women who come to us are trying to escape abusive marriages. We help them find shelters, transportation, somewhere safe to stay.”
I stared at her.
“That’s what you’ve been doing?”
“For almost 11 years.”
Eleven years.
I’d known she volunteered.
I’d never understood what she actually did.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“At first, I thought you wouldn’t understand. Then women started trusting me with things they didn’t want anyone else knowing.”
“But these rings?”
“Over the years, 12 women asked me to keep their rings.”
She explained that she’d begun putting them in waterproof capsules inside her pickle jars.
The jars reminded her of Grandma’s kitchen.
The place where frightened women could finally breathe.
“Some women eventually ask for their rings back,” she said. “Other times, I take ordinary jars upstairs to give the pickles away. Once I open a jar with a ring inside, I don’t put it back on the shelf.”
