I was hurt. “If you can’t be happy for me,” I said, “maybe I don’t need a father like you.”
He looked down for a moment, but I had already walked away.
Not long after, at his service, someone handed me the box. I held it carefully, reading the words again: For the right moment. I wasn’t ready. I kept it with me—through every move, through college, through the ups and downs of adult life. But I never opened it.
Now I’m thirty-nine. I never did get married. For years, I told myself it was because I enjoyed my independence. But if I’m honest, I think I was just afraid. Afraid to choose wrong. Afraid to repeat the past.
Then one day, out of the blue, Brett called.
His voice had changed—older, more weathered—but still warm. “Clara… can we meet? Just talk.”
I said yes.
We met at the park where we used to walk together when we were young. He had two dogs now—Dilly and Gravy—and we spent the afternoon sharing memories and laughter.
That night, for the first time in twenty years, I brought the box down from the shelf. Brett sat with me at the kitchen table as I carefully untied the ribbon. Inside was a yellowed envelope with my name.
My dearest Clara,
If you’re reading this, then the moment has come. I know I was hard on you sometimes—it was because I wanted the best for you, even when I didn’t always know how to show it. You are thoughtful, strong, and full of heart. If the person in your life brings you joy and understands your heart, then I trust you.
I believe in you. I always did.
—Dad
P.S. This ring has been passed down for generations. I hope it brings you happiness.