That weekend felt like everything we’d been missing. No phones, no distractions—just the five of us squeezed into a pedal boat, gliding across the lake like we used to when we were kids.
The twins were horsing around up front, trying to splash each other. I was stretched out in the back, soaking up their laughter and watching Dad pedal, that familiar, quiet smile on his face. But something didn’t feel right.
He kept checking his watch.
Not once or twice—again and again. Like he was keeping time with something none of us could see.
“Dad, relax,” I joked. “You’re not on a schedule.”
He smiled at me, but didn’t say a word.
As we paddled back toward shore and the sun began to slide behind the trees, I felt a strange unease settle in. It wasn’t just the watch—it was the way he seemed to drift in and out, like his mind was somewhere else entirely. He was physically with us, but emotionally… removed.
I tried to shake it off. It was our first real trip together in a long time. Between work, college, and life pulling us in different directions, these moments had become rare. I didn’t want to ruin it with questions or worry. Still, I kept glancing his way, especially when he stood to stretch, staring down at that watch again, his forehead creased with something like concern.
Back at the cabin, the evening rolled out just like old times—laughs over dinner, card games at the table, stories that had grown funnier with every retelling. But every so often, I’d catch Dad’s face growing distant, his fingers fidgeting with the watch like it held some kind of secret.
Later, around the firepit with marshmallows toasting and stars flickering above us, he seemed even more withdrawn.
Again, the watch. Again, the silence.
“Dad, what’s up?” I asked, my voice softer than I meant it to be.
He let out a breath, slow and quiet. “Oh, nothing. Just… keeping track of the time.”
But there was something in his voice that didn’t sit right. It wasn’t just vague—it felt rehearsed. Forced. I caught my brother’s eye. He felt it too.
That night, lying in bed, I heard him in the kitchen. The usual sounds—water boiling, cabinet doors creaking. He always made tea before bed. But tonight, his movements felt rushed. Like he wasn’t just winding down—he was waiting.
Morning came. The kitchen was quiet. Mom was already tidying up, the twins squabbling over bacon.
But Dad was gone.
I figured he’d gone for a walk. But then I saw it—his watch. The one he never took off. The one he’d been glued to all weekend.
And that’s when I knew. Something was wrong.