We walked up the creamy grey stone path way making our way to the grey colored door, bags heavy in hand, housing all sorts of groceries. The house promised sanctuary from the cold wind that whipped across our faces leaving a frost bitten feel to our features. Finally the harsh endless trek from the car to the front door was over and she balanced the heavy bags in one hand with the top pressed against the stone cold door. Hands shaking she reached into the front pocket of her dark washed jeans and tugged on her Seahawks lanyard which her keys were attached too. Half way out, the key chain became stuck and it took two other tugs to finally get the pocket to release its treasure. As she placed her silver key into the lock, a glistening spark caught my eyes. The fake diamond ring reflected dancing streams of light while it hung from the old rusted silver key chain which had obviously been through years of abuse and damage, much like her. The door opened wide to invite us in. The coffee stained table was the first thing to greet us as we walked in. The table housed many little knick knacks and photos and despite its chipped paint and pieces it still stood strong. She placed her key chain on the table, carefully not to damage the ring that was hanging off of it and walked to the brick fireplace in the living room and started a fire. She then picked up her groceries from the couch and we walked past the living room to drop off our bags in the kitchen. I retreated back towards the warmth of the blazing fire when I noticed that the boxes weren’t yet all packed away. I could only imagine how her bedroom still looked, I grimaced. Even after all this time he was still dominantly present. A sad feeling washed over me, like a wave swallowing its prey. I glanced back at the key chain resting on the table and noticed it was placed on top of an old wooden picture frame which had been turned face down. I automatically knew what the picture was of. It was a captured moment from their wedding day right before they walked out as husband and wife. I remember staring at that picture when I was younger feeling envious of the pure joy that was plastered across their faces. The ring that was now on the keychain rested upon her hand. The ring was only temporary, he told her, until he could afford a diamond that deserved to be worn on her beautiful little hand. It was the same beautiful little hand that he slammed and beat, the same hand that went up to cover her face while he was drunk and screamed nasty things at her. The same hand that was there to hold his when he felt like the world was falling apart despite the horrors that he put her through. That hand, full of scars and bruises was no longer beautiful in her eyes and despite it all she still stood strong. A smash brought my attention back to the apartment as the picture frame fell out of my shaky hands and shattered all over the floor. She ran into the living room with the phrase “are you okay” on her lips. That’s when her eyes turned blank, emotionless, remote. She retreated into herself and stared long and hard at the shattered glass on the floor. That was the first time I’ve ever seen my sister cry. She collapsed on the floor and held her mid section tightly with her arms, like she would split in two is she removed them. Huge sobs echoed from her chest as she brought her knees up to her head. I stood there dumbstruck, not knowing what to do or say. I grabbed her key chain and brought it over to her and placed it in her hands. For some reason, I knew this was the right thing to do. She grabbed on to the tiny plastic ring that hung there and her sobs stopped. She laid there and stared at the ring for what seemed like an eternity, with my arms wrapped around her and her head on my legs. I watched as the horrible emotions she felt flashed across her face. I could see that the ring was carried around as an endless reminder of her worst nightmare. A man she loved endlessly that wasn’t a man at all, he was a monster. It served as a reminder to her to never let anyone get close again; to never let anyone fool her into thinking she was special. His words had broken her down, made her a shadow of her former self, yet she still chose to carry him around. Not only as a reminder of betrayal but as a reminder of the love they shared and that was the one thing she could never forget, no matter how hard she tried. I don’t know how long we stayed on the floor like that, but she slowly began to recover her strength and eventually stood up. She walked over to the kitchen and reemerged with a broom and pan. She swept up the pieces of broken glass and separated the picture from the frame. She dumped the cold, shattered pieces into the garbage and then reached down and grabbed her key chain. To my surprise, she tugged at the ring, prying it lose from the loop it was attached too. She walked over to the roaring fireplace and stood in the warmth it provided, staring at her treasures. She traced the outline of his face with her thumb and tears glistened in the corners of her eyes before they broke free and fell down her porcelain skin. She placed the fake diamond on her finger, shaking, and admired it in the fire light. Suddenly, as if she had been bitten by a snake, she trembled violently and abruptly pried the ring off her finger. She tossed the picture and ring into the fire pit and crumbled onto the ground to watch them burn. She hadn’t said a word through all of this, and I walked over there to join her. I sat down next to her and whispered, “I’m so proud of you.” I saw the life return back to her eyes as she looked over to me and said “I won’t let him control me anymore.” She had taken the first steps toward her mental freedom and I vowed to be there for her through the rest of her journey.