The day my father gave me this present is a day I’ll never forget. It wasn’t on my birthday, actually, but during the winter months, when I was visiting him. One evening, he handed me an envelope with a knowing smile. Inside, I found instructions to catch an early 7 a.m. bus from our little community, which would take me into town to the main station. He said I’d get more instructions along the way, but nothing else.
I went to bed that night, too excited to sleep. What could this possibly lead to? The next morning, I packed a small backpack with enough food and water to last the day and made my way to the bus stop. There, the bus driver greeted me with a warm smile, wished me good morning, and handed me a second envelope. I took my seat, opened it, and read: I was to get off at the central bus station, where another bus would be waiting to take me further away. Inside, there was either a ticket or enough money to buy one—honestly, I don’t remember. My focus was elsewhere, lost in the mystery of it all.
At the main bus station, I looked for the bus I’d been directed to, got my ticket, and boarded. Just like before, the driver seemed to know me, smiled, and gave me a third envelope. I opened it with growing curiosity and discovered that I was to get off in a small town I’d never heard of. The bus ride was long, but in Norway, it’s nearly impossible to feel bored looking out the window. Mountains loomed in the distance like sleeping trolls, and the landscape was filled with lush forests covered in snow, icy waterfalls, and glittering lakes of ice. It was the kind of journey you lose yourself in.
When we finally reached the town, I followed the instructions in the envelope, which led me to a specific address. The town was small and oddly quiet, but with a bit of help from a passerby, I found the address. To my surprise, it was a bank. Shyly, I walked in, unsure if I was in the right place, but when I told the person at the entrance my name, they gave me a reassuring smile and nodded. They led me downstairs to a room filled with safes, handed me a key with a number, and left me to it.
I found the safe with the matching number, took a deep breath, and opened it, not knowing what to expect. Inside was a single letter. It was handwritten by my father, dated from when I was just two years old, back when he and my mother separated. As I read it, my eyes filled with tears. In that letter, he poured out his regrets, his hopes for me, his dreams of a relationship that had, at times, been difficult due to struggles we both went through, including my own battles with mental health. He expressed a love I had never fully understood until that moment, carefully tucked away in a safe, waiting for me for 16 years.
I sat there, reading slowly, fighting not to let my tears ruin the delicate paper. My father had given me this beautiful journey, patiently waiting through the years for this exact day. I felt a love so deep and pure, and in that moment, I knew I loved him more than ever before.
When I was ready, I tucked the letter back into the safe, locked it, and walked upstairs. I hadn’t thought about how I’d get home, but I didn’t have to think for long. The moment I stepped outside, I saw my father’s car parked just across the street, him waiting there with tears in his eyes. I walked over, and we embraced, both of us crying—out of sorrow for our past mistakes, but more than anything, for the love we shared, a love I now knew would endure no matter what.
