Waiting for someone experienced enough to notice.
And perhaps waiting for someone who would find something valuable and still understand one simple truth:
Finding something that isn’t yours doesn’t make it yours. It gives you a responsibility to handle it correctly.
Dad understood that immediately.
He got paid.
Martin recovered his family’s collection.
My job remained secure.
And a box buried for twenty-two years finally returned to the family it belonged to.
As Dad drove us home, he glanced at the road ahead.
“Things done right have a way of coming back to the surface,” he said.
Then he kept driving.
THE END
