When I was 12, my dad vanished without a word—no note, no explanation. One day he was making breakfast, humming like always, and the next morning his truck was gone. I grew up pretending I was fine, but the emptiness stayed. Time didn’t heal anything; it just taught me how to live with questions that never stopped aching.
Last week, I finally gathered the courage to clean out his old workshop, untouched for over a decade. As I swept near his workbench, a loose floorboard creaked. Underneath it, I found his old bag, coated in dust. Inside was a small safe deposit key… and a folded note in his handwriting.
Those five words nearly dropped me to my knees: “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to leave you.” That tiny message shattered me but stitched something back together too. For years, I believed he left because I wasn’t enough. Now I’m wondering if he never meant to go at all—if something happened that I never knew about.
I don’t know what’s waiting inside that safe deposit box, but I’m going to the bank this week. Part of me is terrified, and the other part feels like I might finally get the closure I’ve needed since I was a child. If you were me… would you open it alone or bring someone with you?
