Love & All Things Broken

I took the fastest shower of my life, threw on clean jeans and a lightweight blazer, then we hit the road. The clock had just passed three when Macy and I pulled into downtown. Miraculously, I found street parking, paid for the two hour minimum, and double-checked the note card in my pocket. Macy hopped out and paced the sidewalk, hands buried in her hoodie pockets.

The jewelry shop was at the end of the block. Bright lights, glass cases, quiet reverence—the hum of the A/C the only sound. A clerk in a gray vest greeted us.

"I called earlier," I said. "We're here to have a piece engraved."

He nodded and laid a small pad on the counter. Macy took the white box from her bag and set it down. The clerk opened it, read the engraving instructions on our card, and raised an eyebrow.

"Nice choice," he said. "Fifteen minutes—okay?"

Macy looked at me; I gave her a thumbs-up. We watched him disappear into the back with the note card and the box. She let out a breath she'd been holding.

When the clerk returned, he showed us the final product. The lettering was crisp; even Macy nodded her approval. He took it and laid it back in the box, which he then tied with a thin ribbon. He set it on the counter and slid over a small envelope with the receipt.

"It's a beautiful piece," he said. Then he looked at me, told me "good luck," and smiled at Macy who was holding the box with both hands. She held the box out, cradling it with both hands. I took it gently, slipped it into the inner pocket of the blazer I'd thrown on after my post-cleaning shower, and patted the fabric once to make sure it was secure.

Our next stop was a low brick building a few blocks away. The sign out front listed job-training classes and a clothing closet. Inside, the lobby smelled like coffee and copier paper. A volunteer—silver hair, blue polo—greeted us and walked us to a desk.

Macy did most of the talking. She explained what we were looking to do. The woman listened, nodded, and smiled. No quiz, no lecture—just a genuine "Thank you, this will help."

She had us sign some forms. Macy kept the carbon copy; I folded the original into the folder we were given. On the way out, we passed a bulletin board covered with photos—women in new work clothes, a line of graduates holding certificates. Macy stopped and stared for a second.

"Ready?" I asked.

She nodded. "I feel better now."

"So do I."

The sun was still high when we stepped outside. Macy held the folder close to her chest. As we started for the car, she stopped halfway down the walk and turned.

"Dad, tomorrow—can I be the one to hand her the folder?"

"Absolutely," I said.

Macy smiled, the first real smile I'd seen from her all week. She hurried ahead; I followed, one hand on the box in my jacket and a silent hope that tomorrow's surprise would be the first step toward fixing what I'd broken.