Chapter 5 - The Blue Birdhouse
Two months later, the trees outside my kitchen window were completely bare, their dark, skeletal branches cutting sharp lines against a pale winter sky.
The front doorbell rang just as I was pulling a tray of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.
When I opened the door, nobody was there. Instead, sitting squarely on the welcome mat was a medium-sized cardboard box, wrapped tightly in brown packing tape with my name written across the top in shaky, familiar handwriting.
There was no return address.
I brought it inside, set it on the kitchen island, and used a kitchen knife to slice through the tape. Inside, resting beneath a layer of bubble wrap, was a framed photograph and a single, handwritten note on heavy stationery.
I picked up the note first.
“Kristen, I rented a small apartment near the community college on the west side. Diane’s name is off everything. I’m selling the house and moving into the one-bedroom place by the end of the month. I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't expect you to call. But I wanted you to have this picture back. It was taken the day you graduated from law school, back when I still believed I was a good father. Tell Lucas and Mia I love them. Dad.”
I pulled the photograph out of the box.
It was from ten years ago. I was standing on the steps of the university law school in my black graduation robe, holding my diploma in one hand while my father stood beside me, his arm slung proudly around my shoulders, his smile wide and unburdened by debt, fear, or a miserable second wife.
I stared at his face for a long time, watching the ghost of a man I used to know. Then I set the photograph gently on the counter beside the toaster.
Footsteps padded down the hallway, and Lucas appeared in the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes, wearing his favorite dinosaur pajamas. He sniffed the air, his face lighting up.
“Mom? Are those cookies?”
“They just came out of the oven,” I smiled, pulling a spatula from the drawer.
He climbed up onto the barstool, his eyes wandering over to the counter. He spotted the open box, the old photograph, and then reached down inside the cardboard packing material to pull out something small and metallic that had been tucked at the very bottom.
It was a heavy, tarnished silver pocket watch—the one my grandfather had left to my father on his deathbed, the one Dad had always sworn he would pass down to his own son someday.
Lucas held it up by its chain, turning it over in his small hands. “Mom, what’s this?”
I wiped my hands on a dish towel, walked over, and crouched down beside his stool so I was eye-level with my son.
“It’s a watch, sweetie,” I said softly, touching the smooth, cold metal of the casing.
“Whose is it?”
“It was your grandpa’s,” I said, looking into Lucas’s wide, clear blue eyes—eyes that didn't have a single cynical bone in their body.
Lucas thought about it for a second, then looked over toward the living room shelf where his blue-painted birdhouse sat proudly between two hardbound books.
“Does he want it back?” Lucas asked.
May you like
I smiled, reached up, and brushed a stray lock of hair away from my son’s forehead.
“No, buddy,” I said, wrapping my fingers gently over his small hand, closing the silver watch safely inside his palm. “He sent it where it belongs. Let’s go get some cookies.”
