I still live with Opal.
I could afford my own place now. But she’s seventy-five. Her knees aren’t what they used to be. And neither of us wants to live alone.
So I moved into the bigger bedroom on the first floor. The one with the window that looks out over her roses.
I still make her breakfast every morning at seven. Oatmeal with brown sugar and a soft-boiled egg.
I still do her books. Every month, at the dining room table.
And every Sunday night, we eat dinner together. Chicken soup with homemade noodles and warm dinner rolls.
Last Sunday, while she was buttering a roll, Opal looked at me across the table.
“Rebecca,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do you ever wish you’d taken that envelope? The one your sister threw at your feet?”
I thought about it. About that day in the yard. The stack of hundred-dollar bills lying in the grass. Monica in her sunglasses, wearing my father’s watch.
“No,” I said. “Not for one second.”
“Why not? It was a lot of money.”
I looked down at my wrist. At Dad’s gold Hamilton. Still ticking.
“Because if I’d picked it up,” I said, “I would have been agreeing with her. That my life had a price. That she could buy the rest of it for cash in an envelope.”
Opal nodded slowly.
“Your father would be proud of you,” she said.
“I think he’d be proud of you too,” I said. “For hiring a felon off a grocery store bulletin board.”
Opal laughed. She laughs like a girl, Opal does. It always surprises me.
“I didn’t hire a felon,” she said. “I hired a woman who told me the truth when it would have been easier to lie. That’s the rarest thing in the world, Rebecca.”
She passed me the basket of rolls.
“Now eat your soup,” she said. “Before it gets cold.”
That night, I went up to my room and opened the little wooden jewelry box Dad made me when I was twelve. I’d brought it home from Brand Road.
I took out his note and read it one more time.
“You’re the strongest person I know. Don’t ever let anybody tell you different.”
Then I took off his watch and laid it gently in the box beside the note.
And I closed the lid.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I could still hear it, faintly, through the wood.
Still running.
Just like me.
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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