That weekend felt like something out of a memory. No phones, no pressure—just the five of us squeezed into a pedal boat, drifting lazily across the lake like we had when we were kids.
The twins were clowning around up front, trying to splash each other. I was stretched out in the back, half-listening to their laughter, half-watching Dad pedal with that familiar quiet smile. But something felt different.
He kept looking at his watch.
Not once. Not a few times. Over and over. Like he was racing a clock the rest of us couldn’t see.
“Dad, relax,” I joked eventually. “It’s not like you’re late for anything.”
He smiled—but said nothing.
Later, as we paddled toward shore and the sun sank lower in the sky, the unease stayed with me. It wasn’t just the way he kept checking the time—it was his whole vibe. He was more subdued than usual, a little removed, like his body was there but part of him wasn’t.
I tried to shake it off. This was the first time in a while we’d all managed to be together. Life had pulled us in different directions—jobs, school, schedules. These family weekends had become rare. I didn’t want to ruin it by reading too much into things. But I kept catching myself watching him, especially when he stood to stretch, glanced at his watch again, and let his forehead crease ever so slightly.
We went back to the cabin after the boat ride, and the evening played out like it always had—laughing over dinner, playing cards, swapping childhood stories. But even as I laughed, I kept glancing at Dad.
It wasn’t until we were gathered around the firepit, marshmallows crackling over the flames, that I noticed just how distant he’d become. He checked his watch again—only this time, his expression had shifted. It was more focused. Sharper.
“Dad, what’s up?” I asked, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
He paused and let out a quiet breath. “Oh, nothing—just keeping track of time, that’s all.”
But the way he said it didn’t sit right. It wasn’t like him to be vague. I caught my brother’s eye. We both felt it—something wasn’t being said.
Later that night, as I lay in bed, I heard him moving around in the kitchen. It was a familiar sound—he always made tea before bed. But this time it felt different. Rushed. Like he was waiting for something—or someone.
The next morning, I walked into the kitchen to find it already mostly cleaned up. Mom was at the sink, finishing the breakfast dishes. The twins were bickering over the last strip of bacon. But Dad wasn’t there.
I figured he’d gone out for some fresh air or a morning walk. But then I noticed something strange—his watch, the same one he…