I was seventeen when I made the hardest decision of my life. My baby boy was two months old, and with only three diapers left and no money for more, I opened the little wooden box under my bed—the one thing I swore I’d never touch.
Inside was my dad’s watch. He died when I was seven. I didn’t know him well, but that watch was proof he’d been real. Selling it felt like cutting my last tie to him—but my son needed to eat.
I walked into a pawn shop at the edge of town. The owner, older and sharp-eyed, glanced at the watch, then at my baby. “You’re wasting your life, kid,” he muttered. I said nothing, took the money, and walked out. Life moved forward—slowly, painfully, beautifully. My son grew curious, kind, stubborn, and somehow, we made it.
When he turned eighteen, there was a knock at the door. The pawn shop owner returned, holding a box. Inside were not the watch but photographs of my dad—and the man himself, smiling beside him in every shot. He explained they’d been best friends, and he’d recognized me that day but had been too bitter to help.
With no family of his own, he left us the shop. Four months later, he passed. Now, every morning, I see my dad and his friend side by side, reminding me life sometimes circles back, returning what it once took—just not always how we expect.