I opened the velvet case again, and the watch inside looked identical to Dad’s. I read his letter aloud to the empty kitchen: “Elaine, the watch your brother takes is a copy. I had it made years ago, because I knew he would try. The real one is in this case, and it has a story.” My hands shook. The letter went on, and the next line made me stop breathing.

On my phone, Greg was still shouting. “The jeweler says it’s brass! Brass, Elaine! Where is the real one?” I looked at the case, and under the watch lay a small folded paper. It was an old railroad commendation, signed by a company president. Then Greg’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The appraiser says the fake has a serial number. Why would Dad do this?”