I was afraid to move, lest I disturb the snow, thinking that any surface indentation, no matter how tiny, might reveal my ring’s landing spot. I called my boyfriend. I called a friend who was watching my girls. The three of us collectively called a half-dozen stores and tracked down a used metal detector from a pawnshop.

My friend drove with my girls to pick it up. It was after 2 p.m.; we had only a few hours of daylight left. While I waited for my friend to arrive with the metal detector, a pack of parents and children and dogs arrived with cross-country ski equipment. Though I was too dazed to remember, I must have told them I lost a ring because I heard them wondering aloud if it was my wedding ring.

I didn’t answer.

An older woman with another dog showed up and joined the skiing crowd. She was talking loudly, asking what was going on, and I was protecting my snow from their dogs, wishing they would leave me in silence to mourn. There was no way I would find it.

When the skiers left, the woman came over and said, “Is it your wedding ring?”

“No,” I said, too sharply.

A few minutes later, a man ran by, making eye contact in a way that made me think he might know me — it’s a small town — but I didn’t recognize him. He stopped running and asked if I was all right. “You look distraught,” he said.

“I lost my ring.”

“Your wedding ring?”

“No! I’m not married.” I didn’t mask my exasperation.

I’d flustered him. He was so kind. I was so sad. He left, and I stared at the snow. No ring. No mother. No husband. Not even a uterus! How easy it would have been for me to dissolve into a pity party. But in reality, I was jazzed about the surgery. In reality, I love my life, my family, my boyfriend.