I scrolled down to see another picture of Dan at the pier, my dad’s faded baseball cap on his head and that same watch on his wrist. Then another—my mom’s locket, a dog-eared map from the trip. His captions were small humiliations: ‘Found some treasures’ and ‘Who knew he’d leave so much behind?’ I felt my stomach drop like a fist.

I forwarded the album to the family group chat with one message: Where did you get these? My phone buzzed immediately. Mom replied with a shrug emoji and “He said he was ‘helping’.” Dad’s sister sent a shocked face. Dan texted: “Stop making waves. I was putting things where they belong.” I drove anyway, because words weren’t enough.

I pulled into his driveway and stayed in the car until my hands stopped trembling. I took the jeans from his backseat, watching him pretend to mow the lawn. When he saw me he smirked and shut off the mower, wiping his hands. “What do you want, kid?” he said.

I opened the jeans pocket without thinking—my father’s watch against my palm warmed like a lung, beating in memory. I held it up. “These belong to me,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. The smirk faltered. He tried to laugh it off, then reached into his pocket and came up empty.

My parents came out, drawn by the scene and the messages. For the first time the laughter left their faces. Dan’s eyes flicked between us and the backseat, then to my hand. He snapped, “Fine. Take them.” He tossed the rest of the plastic bag toward me as if it were garbage.

I stuffed the watch into my pocket and folded jeans over my arm like a flag. My dad’s laugh felt close. I decided not to normalize it.