Three months earlier, his hands had started trembling.
At first, the shaking was barely noticeable.
But gradually, ordinary things became difficult.
Buttoning his shirt.
Combing his hair.
Holding a cup of coffee.
Even shaving.
He had visited a doctor, who recommended further tests.
But he hadn’t told me.
He knew how hard I worked as a single mother and didn’t want to become another responsibility.
One Saturday, Emma had noticed him struggling to comb his hair.
She offered to help.
Soon, their little routine began.
Each week, they went into the bathroom, where the large mirror and bright light made things easier.
Emma helped arrange his shaving supplies, handed him towels, and reminded him where everything was.
But there was something else.
My father pointed toward the wooden box.
“Open it, Sarah.”
Inside was my mother’s pearl necklace.
Her wedding ring.
And a folded letter with my name written on it.
