When I was a child, I lived with my parents and brother in a one-bedroom flat on the second floor of a sturdy brick apartment building in Chicago's Humboldt Park neighborhood. Because our family grocery store was on ground level, I imagine my youthful legs easily skipping steps two at a time throughout the day.

t was five a.m., and out of habit, I strolled to my front door to seek the sliver of shadow alerting me that the New York Times was waiting on the other side. But all I could see in the gap between door and floor was light coming from the hallway. It was then I remembered I had cancelled the paper's home delivery and switched to online.

"No, no, don't open that box."

"But your ring could be in there," I said. "I remember I looped it around your watchband and stored it with your stuff."

"I'm warning you," he said. "It's not there."

I couldn't decide between a 14" chain I already owned, and the 18" gold-over-sterling silver that I eyed online. Because the longer one was inexpensive, I opted to order it, figuring that if I disliked it, I could use it for some other dangle.

Both of my spouses were confident and talented singers. My first has a beautiful tenor voice and during our marriage, she took weekly lessons; opera was her repertoire of choice. (When we were together, she acted as a man. Now, she is living her true self as a transgender woman.)