The Message Hidden in My Father’s Workshop

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to leave you.”

I sat down right on the workshop floor, the paper trembling between my fingers. Tears landed on the ink as the words sank in. For years, I believed his silence meant I wasn’t worth staying for. That maybe I had done something wrong. That maybe he’d simply chosen a life without us.

But those five words opened a different possibility—one I had never let myself consider. Maybe he didn’t choose to disappear. Maybe there were circumstances I never understood. Maybe love was still there, even if he couldn’t show it the way I needed.

The safe-deposit key felt impossibly heavy in my palm. Whatever he left behind, he wanted me to find it. And after so many years of uncertainty, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: the faintest sense of direction.

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?