Charlotte strode in from school, straight to her parents' bedroom. Small, first-grader hands rummaged in her mother’s dresser. Found the little box. Indignant feet ran to the bathroom.

Her mother followed. “What are you doing, honey?”
Charlotte turned, glared defiantly. “It’s down the toilet.”
The water glinted. “Charlotte! Why did you do that?”
Reproachful tears sprang in Charlotte’s eyes. “How could you, mommy?”
“What, honey? Daddy gave me that ring. It’s very precious, and expensive.”

Twisting long brown pigtails she breathed disappointment, “A man died for your diamond, mommy! How could you?”
“Died?”
“Mrs. Foster told us: Men go down mines into the ground. They dig all day and get paid hardly anything. They find diamonds and bad men with guns take them. They make wars.” Accusation flared across her face. “They kill people. They’re bloody diamonds.”

“Oh, honey, mine is not a blood diamond.”
“It’s not?”
Her mother knelt, held Charlotte’s shoulders, “No, honey. I have a certificate.”
Relief flickered before a stubborn mouth set. “But how do you know for sure, mommy? How do you know?”
Still kneeling, her mother stared into the water, then at Charlotte, certainty crumbling.

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