The morning of the trip, I found my father’s old fountain pen in the back of my jewelry drawer.
I wasn’t looking for it. I was looking for a pair of pearl earrings Aaron’s mother had given me for our first anniversary. Pearls she said were “more appropriate” than the diamond studs I usually wore. I was trying very hard that week to be appropriate.
Instead, my fingers closed around something long and cool and smooth. I pulled it out.
It was black, with a gold clip and a little gold band around the middle. The ink inside had dried up years ago. On the side, in tiny engraved letters, it said H.V.
Harold Vance. My father.
I sat down on the edge of the bed with the pen in my hand.
He signed everything with that pen. Every contract. Every check. Every birthday card. He said a man should sign his name with something that weighs a little, so he remembers his name means something.
The last thing he ever signed with it was a stack of documents I brought to his hospital room four years ago. He was very sick by then. His hands shook. It took him almost ten minutes to sign all of them.
When he was done, he put the pen down on his blanket and looked at me.
“Alyssa,” he said. “Promise me something.”
“Anything, Daddy.”
“Love him all you want,” he said. “Give him everything you want. But never give him the pen.”
I laughed. I thought he was confused from the medicine.
“I mean it,” he said. He took my hand. His fingers were cold and thin. “There’s a difference between giving someone your heart and giving them your signature. Keep the pen, baby girl. Whatever happens. Keep the pen.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
TAP ” READ MORE ” 👇
