The Box My Father Left Behind
The last words I said to my father still echo in my memory. I was nineteen—stubborn, upset, and too proud to see the bigger picture.
“I don’t need you,” I told him.
The next morning, he passed unexpectedly while on his way to the local feed store. There were no final goodbyes, just a simple wooden box he had left behind with a handwritten note: For the right moment.
I couldn’t bring myself to open it. Not then. Not for twenty years.
I still remember the day I told him I was engaged. It was summer in Iowa, and the air was thick with the scent of fresh-cut grass and dinner frying in the kitchen. I walked in, holding out my engagement ring with excitement.
“Dad,” I said, “Brett proposed. I said yes.”
He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak words of congratulations. He simply looked at me with calm, steady eyes and asked, “Are you sure?”
Continue reading on the next page…