The Message Hidden in My Father’s Workshop

I don’t know what the box holds. I haven’t gone to the bank yet. Part of me is nervous about the answers, and part of me hopes they will mend something inside me—something twelve-year-old me never learned how to fix.

I plan to go this week. I keep thinking about whether I should open it alone or ask someone I trust to stand beside me. There is comfort in having a steady presence when facing old wounds, but there is also a quiet strength in experiencing closure on your own terms.

If you were in my place, would you walk into that bank alone—or bring someone with you?

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