The letter in the fireproof box had explained everything. Dad knew Doug better than Doug thought. Two months before he died, he asked a jeweler friend to make an exact copy of his railroad watch, with that message engraved on the back. He wore the copy in the hospital. The real watch was in the little velvet case, wrapped in his old handkerchief. That was why Dad had me fetch the box.

His instructions were simple. If Doug took the copy, I was to place the real one on his wrist before they closed the casket. So the next morning, before the burial, the funeral director let me have a few minutes alone with Dad. My husband stood guard at the door. I fastened the real watch around his wrist, wound it one last time, and listened to it tick. Then I kissed his forehead and let them close the lid.

The letter ended with a line just for me. You kept track of my time for three years, sweetheart. I wanted to make sure you knew I noticed. Dad had also left me the house, his savings, and a list of every dialysis appointment I drove him to, in his own handwriting, with a check mark beside each one. Doug was left a single item. The replica. Aunt Rita cried when I told her.

Doug called again a month later, sober and quiet. He said he had read the engraving every night since the jewelry store. He apologized to me, then asked if he could visit Dad’s grave with me. I didn’t stop him. We stood there together in October. He took the fake watch out of his pocket, wound it, and set it on the headstone. “I guess I’m finally keeping track of time,” he said. Then he hugged me.