MARTHA FOUND A TINY ENGRAVING ON THE BACK OF THE OLD WATCH
I found the small, tarnished watch tucked deep inside his sock drawer, right where he said it wasn’t. The faint scent of old spice and mothballs hit me as I reached for it, a strange sense of dread already prickling my skin. He’d sworn it was gone years ago, lost during his move.
My fingers traced the cool, worn metal, looking for the tiny scratch he’d mentioned. Instead, my thumb brushed over something else, a faint, almost invisible etching. “What is this?” I whispered, as the letters slowly became clear: *E.R. 03/17/08*.
He walked in just then, saw it in my hand, and his face drained of all color. “You snooped? You think digging through my things is okay?” he stammered, his eyes fixed on the watch, not me. The air in the room suddenly felt heavy, thick with an unspoken lie clinging to the very dust motes dancing in the faint sunlight.
“Who is E.R.?” I asked, my voice trembling as I held up the watch, the tiny, perfect engraving glinting under the bedside lamp. He swallowed hard, his gaze darting away from mine, a flicker of something I didn’t recognize crossing his eyes. “That was for Eleanor,” he finally said, too quietly. His hand shook as he took the watch from me, and my entire world felt suddenly cold and tilted.
Then I remembered the exact name: Eleanor Rose. It was my own mother’s.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*My breath hitched. Eleanor Rose. My mother. But… why this? Why hide it? My mind reeled, trying to piece together the fragments. Mom had passed away five years ago, after a long illness. Had this watch been for her before then? Why had he said it was lost?
“Mom?” I whispered, the name feeling heavy on my tongue. “Why did you hide a watch for Mom?”
He sank onto the edge of the bed, the watch clutched in his hand like a fragile bird. His eyes, usually so kind, were clouded with a familiar, deep sorrow I hadn’t seen in years. “It was… it was meant to be a gift,” he started, his voice rough. “For our thirtieth anniversary. That was the date.”
March 17th, 2008. Their anniversary. I remembered that day. Mom had been feeling particularly unwell then. He’d been trying to keep her spirits up, planning a quiet dinner at home.
“I had it engraved,” he continued, looking at the watch, not me. “I was so proud of it. I was going to give it to her that evening.” He paused, a shaky sigh escaping his lips. “But she had a bad turn that afternoon. She was in a lot of pain. The doctors came. The night… it was one of the worst. I never got the chance. I couldn’t. After… after she was gone, I couldn’t bear to look at it. It was a reminder of that terrible day, of the gift I never gave her, of the time we lost.”
He ran a thumb over the engraving, his eyes distant. “I put it away. Tried to forget about it. Every time I saw it, it felt like a failure, like I’d missed my last chance to give her something beautiful.” He looked up then, his gaze meeting mine, filled with a raw vulnerability that mirrored the grief I still carried. “I told you it was lost because… it felt easier than explaining all this. Easier than admitting I hid away a memory of your mother because it hurt too much.”
Tears welled in my eyes, not just for the hidden watch, but for the weight of sorrow he had carried silently all these years. The watch wasn’t a secret from a past love; it was a wound he hadn’t allowed himself to heal. I walked over to him, sat beside him on the bed, and gently placed my hand over the one holding the watch.
“Dad,” I said softly, “Mom knew you loved her. You didn’t need a watch to tell her that.”
He nodded, a single tear tracing a path down his weathered cheek. He looked down at the watch again, but this time, the tension in his grip seemed to lessen. He held it out to me. “Maybe… maybe you should keep it, Martha. It was meant for your mother. Perhaps it should stay with family.”
I took the watch, feeling its history and the love it represented. It wasn’t just a tarnished timepiece; it was a silent testament to a love story, marked by joy, loss, and a father’s enduring grief. Holding it, I didn’t feel dread anymore, but a quiet, profound connection to the woman who was E.R., the mother who was Eleanor Rose, and the father who loved her so much he couldn’t bear to look at a symbol of their final, difficult moments. It was a heavy inheritance, but one I would carry with care, a small piece of their story, now shared between us.