When I turned 18, my grandma gave me an old wristwatch that hadn’t worked in years. She said it belonged to my grandfather and hoped I’d like it. I barely glanced at it and mumbled, “Thanks.” To me, it felt useless.
A few weeks later, she passed away.
The watch stayed in a drawer for over a decade, untouched and forgotten.
Last month, my teenage son found it while going through my things. He asked if he could try fixing it. When we opened the back, a tiny folded note slipped out.
It read: “For your first big dream — never give up.”
Inside was something else—a small, faded receipt for a photography course I had once dreamed of taking when I was younger.
It hit me all at once. She had known. She had listened. And somehow, without ever saying a word, she had found a way to support that dream.
I just sat there, holding that fragile piece of paper, overwhelmed with a kind of love I hadn’t fully understood back then. I cried harder than I had in years.
Now I wear that old watch every day.
It still doesn’t tick—but it reminds me that her love always did.
