Sparkling stones

“The Necklace” by Guy de Maupassant tells the story of a beautiful woman born into a poor family. She marries a low-level government clerk. She is very vain and wants to look elegant, so she borrows a necklace from a friend to wear to a fancy party. But she loses the necklace. To buy a replacement, she and her husband work very hard and live a miserable life for over ten years. Later, she finds out the original necklace was fake.

Since I read this story as a child, I always feel uncomfortable when I see diamonds. I remember that sad story hiding behind their sparkle.

Also, I remember a time when I didn’t know much about diamond sizes. My mother gave her daughter-in-law a diamond ring as a wedding gift. Later, my one's-in-law checked the ring and said the size was smaller than my mother had said. They argued over it. That made me dislike diamonds even more.

I didn’t even get a cheap wedding ring from my husband. At that time, he couldn’t even afford to buy food every day. A diamond ring was like a from a faraway land.

Actually, diamonds are not rare. They are expensive because companies limit how many diamonds are sold. People say you should spend at least two months’ salary on an engagement ring. I don’t know who made that rule, but it was probably a marketing team trying to make more money. Because of that, the shiny stone never attracted me.

I’d rather have something else: when I don’t feel like cooking, my husband brings dinner from K-town. That is better than a diamond ring.

A long time ago, hunters came home with meat for their hungry families. Now, my husband comes home with bags of groceries. He puts them down with a thud. I smile and open the bag at the table. Inside, there’s seolleongtang (ox bone soup), bindaetteok (mung bean pancake), cheonggukjang (fermented soybean stew), and grilled mackerel. He say, 

“We can eat the cheonggukjang tomorrow.” 

I feel so thankful when he says that—because it means I don’t need to cook tomorrow.

Every two weeks, on Saturday—the day my article appears in the newspaper—my husband goes to K-town. He buys the newspaper and brings back Korean food. Normally, he just scrolls through the news online. But on the day my writing is published, he reads the paper carefully.

“I’ll bring food more often. Eat well,” he says. “We don’t use MSG at home, but sometimes you need a little to sleep better.”

He smiles as he places a big, crispy piece of grilled mackerel on top of my rice.