I was just nineteen when Brett proposed. I rushed home to tell Dad, expecting a hug—maybe even a smile. But instead, he looked at me with quiet concern. “Are you sure?” he asked. I took it as doubt, not love. Angry, I snapped, “If you can’t be happy for me, maybe I don’t need a father like you.” I walked out.

He died the next morning of a heart attack. At the funeral, someone handed me a wooden box with a handwritten note from him: For the right moment. I never opened it. I carried it from home to home for twenty years, always dusted, never touched. I never married Brett or anyone else.

I told myself it was independence, but really, I was afraid—afraid I’d ruined my last chance at my father’s blessing. Then, one day, Brett called out of the blue. We met, we talked, we laughed—like no time had passed. He introduced me to his dogs, Dilly and Gravy. It was the first time I felt truly present in years. After our walk, I invited him in. I showed him the box. Together, we opened it. Inside was a letter from my dad:

“If he makes you laugh and holds your sadness like it’s precious, I bless your choice. I bless you. Love, Dad.” Underneath was a delicate gold ring—my great-grandmother’s. Brett took my hand and asked, “Is it the right moment now?” As he slipped the ring onto my finger, I felt it—I felt my dad’s presence. In the breeze, in the quiet, in the love I was finally ready to accept. This… was the moment he meant.