The last thing I ever said to my father was that I didn’t need him. The next morning, he was gone, leaving behind only a locked box with a note: “For the right moment.” Twenty years passed before I dared to open it. That day, I was nineteen and had just said yes to my fiancé, Brett. My father didn’t show excitement only quiet doubt.
Hurt, I told him I didn’t need a father who wasn’t happy for me. I walked out, and he left that night, never to return. The box stayed with me through every move, untouched, a reminder of unfinished business and regret. I never married Brett or anyone too afraid to commit, haunted by my father’s disappointment.
