When my father spotted me, he tried to signal, but I turned away. Because some wounds don’t close overnight. And I wasn’t ready to hear whatever he had rehearsed.
Behind me, I heard the wheelchair roll toward the exit.
For a moment, I felt lighter. Like a chapter had finally ended.
***
Three weeks later, I arrived at work to find a small package sitting on the nurses’ station. Maria revealed it was for me. My name was written across the front with no return address.
Inside the box was a velvet pouch. The silver Rolex rested inside.
I opened the back compartment. The photo was gone.
It was a delivery for me.
Instead, there was a small engraving on the inside cover.
My fingers traced the letters: “For Kelly — the one who stayed.”
I stood there for a while, then closed it.
I decided to keep it this time. Not because of the money, but because it meant something different now.
I slipped the watch into my pocket and returned to work.
Other patients were waiting. People who needed someone to stay.
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