I inherited my mother's wedding ring three years ago.
Not only does it represent 62 years of a successful marriage, but it held many memories for me. She wore it 7/24 all those years, except for the time she had it reset because the band had thinned to a thread.
When I went to the jeweler to have it resized (mom never weighed more than 102 pounds except when pregnant, ballooning to 115), he looked at the gem and declared it flawed, and not worth much.
The diamond has a small chip in it, imperceptible to the casual eye.
It didn't matter to me, but I wanted to know how the hardest rock could chip. "Wear, age," the jeweler muttered.
I'm not surprised. A woman who survived dust storms and the Great Depression, walked across a dike to teach at a one room schoolhouse in subzero temperatures (frozen hands in the deal), raised seven challenging children, suffering the death of one, and lived into her nineties, had broken a diamond.
Yep, sounds about right. I'm so proud to wear it in her memory.