“I got on the plane to go to Chicago, ’cause that’s where he lives, and you know he has a roof, over his house, and the strangest thing happened.”

“What?”

“The snow fell from the sky and fell on his roof and his roof collapsed on his legs, and his legs had to be amputated. That’s why I didn’t stay. He told the doctors that he didn’t want me to see him like that. He said I deserved to be with a whole man, not just half of one.”

“So, you got dumped? Again?” she said, looking expressionless.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Surely a lecture was forthcoming. Either that or some cleverly twisted scripture that would make me feel worse than I was already feeling.

“Well, Montana, God works in mysterious ways. His ways are not our ways. God closes one door so that He can open another. And when God opens up a door, no man will ever be able to close it.”

At that moment my heart instantly started to mend. She was comforting. Uncharacteristically kind. It was a breakthrough. A sign that good things were soon to come.

“Wow, Momma,” I responded, starting to get choked up with emotion, “Thank you. That was one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me. You’re right. That door did close, and I believe God has another one waiting to open for me. For us all.”

“Us all who? I got a husband. And Sheree has a surprise.”

“What’s the surprise?” I said, picking up the pieces from my cracked face.

“Sheree, show Montana your hand!” my mother said, egging her on.

Her hand? Why would my mother be asking my little sister to show me her hand? The only reason she would show me her hand was if…was if she was…in slow motion Sheree’s arm swung wide, her hand outstretched, wobbling from the weight of her hand. A sudden burst of light beamed from her finger, illuminating the entire room.

“It’s two and a half carats,” my mother blissfully pronounced. “Not bad for a twenty-one year old, huh? I didn’t get my first carat until my third marriage.”

I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was as if I had walked into an episode of The Twilight Zone and I was this week’s special guest star. My twenty-one-year-old baby sister was wearing a ring on her ring finger. A two-and-a-half carat ring. My sister was engaged. The one I had nearly raised since birth, whose diapers I’d changed. The one who had two years left before she recieved her degree, and four more years left before she’d be eligible for the Moore family curse of the unwed daughter. God, this can’t be happening.