My last fight with Dad ended with me saying I didn’t need him. He died the next day, leaving a locked box and a note: “For the perfect time.” Twenty years later, I opened it, and what I found helped me heal and open my heart to love again.
That summer day in Iowa is still clear, warm and heavy, with the kitchen smelling of roasted potatoes and apple pie. Curtains swayed as a breeze drifted in. I ran in, heart thumping, hiding an engagement ring. “Dad,” I said, smiling, “Tom proposed. I said yes!” He was eating, his knife still. His green eyes, always steady, sharpened. “Anna,” he said, lowering the knife, “are you sure?” I bristled. “Yes,” I said sharply. “I love him.” He sighed, looking older. “You’re nineteen. Love can fade.” Anger surged. “If you can’t be happy, I don’t want you!” His eyes glistened, but I grabbed my bag and left, the door slamming. I was too angry to turn back.
The next morning, he was gone. His heart failed while driving to the grain store, his truck sliding into a ravine. No last words. At his funeral, I was given a wooden box with his note: “For the perfect time.” It felt like a stone in my hands, tied to my cruel words, so I didn’t open it. Now, at 39, my eyes show traces of a life paused by regret. I never married Tom, or anyone, saying I loved being free, but it was fear. The box followed me—from a Davenport flat to an Ames rental, then a small house near home. I packed it carefully, dusted it, traced the note, but kept it shut, afraid I’d ruin Dad’s last gift.
I tried dating. Some men were warm, others witty, but I’d pull away when it got serious, haunted by Dad’s doubtful gaze. Then, one Friday, Tom called, his voice weathered but kind, like a familiar tune. “Anna, can we catch up?” he asked. I nearly refused but said, “Okay.” We met Saturday at a park, like our old dates. The air smelled of fresh grass and hot dogs, the sky soft with clouds. Tom brought two dogs—a lanky hound, Rusty, and a bold mutt, Nugget. “Awful names, right?” he chuckled. I laughed, surprised by my lightness. We walked, reminiscing about old games, bad diners, and simple joys. The dogs romped, and I felt free. Tom’s hand touched mine, and I didn’t move away.
That evening, as the sky turned rose and amber, he walked me home. At my door, he leaned close, but I froze. “It’s not you,” I said. “Come in.” At my kitchen table, under a warm light, I took the box from its shelf. It seemed smaller, edges worn, but Dad’s note—“For the perfect time”—stood out. “Dad left this,” I told Tom, hands shaky. He nodded, silent. I opened it, finding an envelope with my name. The letter said: “My Anna, If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I hope you waited for the right time. I’m sorry I doubted you. I feared your mistakes would mirror mine. You’re braver, sweeter. If he makes you laugh and holds your hurt, I trust him. I love you. Dad. P.S. This ring is yours.” Tears fell, blurring the ink. Below was a gold ring, etched with flowers, from my great-grandma.
I looked at Tom, his eyes soft. “He left this for me,” I said. “I think it’s time.” Tom held my hand. “Now?” he asked. On my porch, as night fell, crickets sang, and Rusty and Nugget slept, we sat. Tom knelt, holding the ring. “Anna, twenty years ago, I lost you. I want you now, forever.” I saw his kind eyes, older but true. I gave my hand. The ring fit. “This is Dad’s time,” I said. I felt Dad in the breeze, the ring’s weight, Tom’s steady look. He was smiling. Share this to lift someone’s heart.
