I was halfway through scribbling numbers for a roofing job when my phone buzzed. Unknown caller. I almost ignored it, but something in my gut told me to answer.
“Hello?”
“Cameron Martin?” The voice was rough, like gravel dragged across concrete.
“Yeah, that’s me. Who’s this?”
“This is Frank, from DeMarco’s Pawn and Gold. Glendale. I think I’ve got something of yours.”
My shoulders tightened. “And what would that be?”
“A Rolex Submariner. Stainless, black dial. Engraved on the back: ‘To Cam, love always, Dad.’”
The words punched the air out of me. My hand shot to my desk drawer, bottom left. That’s where it lived—wrapped in cloth, tucked behind a pile of invoices. I yanked it open. Empty.
Heat flared in my chest. My pulse thundered. “Where’d you get it?”
“A kid brought it in yesterday. Said it was his.”
I didn’t need to ask who. Tanner.
“You should come down here,” Frank said. “Not something to hash out over the phone.”
I didn’t bother with directions. Keys in hand, I was already out the door. The Rolex wasn’t just a watch—it was the one thing my dad left me. He died three years back, chemo wasting him away until only his eyes looked alive. The last time he wore that watch, he took it off with trembling fingers, pressed it into my palm, and rasped, ‘This is yours now. Don’t let anyone take it.’
And I hadn’t—until now.
DeMarco’s sat between a payday loan joint and a failing vape shop in a half-dead strip mall. The windows barred, the neon sign buzzing half-lit. I shoved through the door, the bell above it screeching like an alarm.
A thick-necked man with sun-baked skin looked me over. “Cam?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve got your old man’s jawline,” he said, almost to himself. Then he set a worn leather box on the counter and flicked it open. My dad’s Rolex gleamed back at me, scar and all, a nick in the bezel from a kitchen remodel years ago.
“Who pawned it?” I asked.
“Kid named Tanner. Blond, early twenties. Claimed it was his dad’s. Said it was passed down.”
My fists tightened.
Frank slid a file across the counter. “Before you lose it, you should know—your dad pawned this once. Sixteen years ago. Borrowed thirty-five hundred against it, paid it back in less than a month. Cash.”
I blinked down at the photocopy—Russ Martin, clear as day. My dad had never told me.
“This is yours,” Frank said firmly, pushing the box toward me. Then he did something unexpected. He pressed a fingernail against a hidden groove on the clasp. A latch popped open. Inside was a slip of yellowed paper.
The handwriting made my knees weak—my dad’s sharp block letters.
CAM, IF YOU’RE READING THIS, GO TO SAFE DEPOSIT BOX 313 AT UNION FIRST. KEY’S IN MY SOCKET SET, BEHIND THE 5/8S.
Hours later, I stood in my mom’s kitchen, the Rolex ticking between us. My mom and her husband Gary froze when I dropped it on the table with a thunk.
“Lose something?” I asked.
Their faces drained. “Where’d you—”
“Pawn shop called,” I snapped. “Tanner tried to sell it.”
“It’s not what you think,” my mom stammered.
“You pawned it for him. For his little ‘app project.’ Nine grand. Don’t bother denying it.”
“Cam, he needed a chance,” she cried. “He has vision! He’s not like you—stuck patching roofs forever!”
My laugh came out sharp and bitter. “So because I work with my hands, I don’t count? That watch was Dad’s. The only piece of him I had left.”
Gary shoved back his chair. “You’re small-time, Cam. Tanner’s the future.”
“No,” I said flatly. “Tanner’s a thief. And you two backed him.”
I slapped the police report on the table—pawn records, footage, serial number, all attached. My mom’s eyes filled with tears. “Please, don’t ruin his life.”
“He already ruined mine,” I said, walking out. “Dad would be proud I finally stood up.”
Later that night, I found the socket set in my dad’s old shed. Behind the 5/8 was the key.
The safe deposit box at Union First held a ledger and a sealed envelope with my name on it. Inside: over $100,000 in bearer bonds. And a letter.
Cam—this is time. Time to leave if you need to. Time to build something of your own. You don’t owe anyone your future. Just one thing: make it yours. Love, Dad.
The ledger listed unpaid jobs—money owed to him when he was too sick to fight. One stood out: Reynolds and Bloom Construction. $18,500.
My dad hadn’t just left me money. He left me unfinished business.
Sixty days later, with my lawyer’s help, I’d collected the debts. Tanner’s app collapsed. Gary called begging for a loan. Mom sent emails blaming me for tearing the family apart.
I bought a modest ranch house four blocks from where Dad used to live. Moved his old toolbox into the garage.
The Rolex sits on my nightstand now. Some nights I open the hidden clasp and read his note again, reminding myself:
You don’t owe anyone your future.
Dad didn’t just leave me a watch. He left me time. And I finally know what to do with it.
