I’ve never been one for public confessions, but today I feel an urgent pull to share a story I’ve kept buried for years. Maybe it’s because I finally understand it myself, or perhaps I need to let it go to move forward. Either way, here goes.
It started with a watch. A small, silver wristwatch that had lain forgotten in a box in the attic, amid things that once belonged to my father. I stumbled upon it accidentally last weekend while searching for an old photo album. It looked ordinary at first glance, but as I picked it up, a memory flickered—my father’s hand gently checking the time, a soft smile on his face as he caught my eye.
I’d never paid much attention to that watch growing up. It was just another thing my father wore, like his faded leather jacket or his favorite cap. But holding it now, it felt warm, almost as if it contained echoes of his heartbeat.
My father died when I was sixteen. It was sudden, a heart attack that took him away before I could even process what was happening. In the chaos that followed, the watch was packed away, along with many parts of my childhood I wasn’t ready to sift through.
I stood there in the attic, the mid-morning light filtering through the dusty windows, illuminating the watch’s simple face. Curiosity tugged at me. I turned it over and found an inscription. The letters were tiny, etched with care: “For every second we have, love, M.”
My breath caught. “M” was my mother’s initial. I felt a wave of confusion crash over me. I had never known my parents to express such sentiments openly. They were practical, loving but reserved, their emotions showing through actions rather than words.
Driven by a need for clarity, I took the watch downstairs, the weight of it pulling at the questions forming in my mind. My mother was sitting by the window, reading. Her eyes lifted to meet mine, soft yet questioning.
“Mom,” I began, holding out the watch. “I found this in the attic.”
Her gaze shifted to the wristwatch, and I saw a flicker of recognition—the glint of years gone by, a fondness wrapped in the past. Her eyes glistened, and I knew then that the watch held more than time.
“Your father…” Her voice trembled slightly. “He wore that every day after you were born.”
“I found an inscription,” I added, my curiosity getting the better of me.
She nodded, a wistful smile gracing her lips. “It was my gift to him when you arrived. We weren’t the most expressive, but we had our ways.”
I watched as she took the watch, her fingers tracing the familiar metal. “It was our little secret, this watch,” she continued, her voice thick with emotion. “He would glance at it during his busy days and think of us.”
Something clicked inside me. All those years, I thought my father was just a man who worked too hard, who rarely took vacations and missed some of my school events because of work. But now I saw it differently. Every tick of that watch was a reminder of why he tried so hard—his love for us.
My mother and I talked for hours that day, unraveling stories I had never heard, painting a portrait of a man who loved deeply, even if quietly. It changed something fundamental in me, reshaping memories tinged with misunderstanding into ones of warmth and love.
As I write this, I’m wearing the watch. It no longer ticks, but maybe it doesn’t need to. It has told me all I need to know. This small object, once overlooked, has become a bridge, connecting past and present, filling me with gratitude and a clearer sense of who my father was and the love that shaped me.
Thank you for reading. Sharing this has been as much about letting go as it is about holding on. I think my father might have approved.