I stood up so fast my knees popped. I walked out the back door, down the steps, and over to the side of the house where the green garden hose was coiled up.

The ground was damp from the rain we had yesterday. I knelt in the dirt, not caring about my pants, and started feeling around the bricks near the foundation. Sure enough, the third brick from the corner was loose.

I pried it up. Underneath, wrapped in a little piece of plastic wrap to keep the rust off, was a small brass key.

I took it back inside, my heart hammering against my ribs. I went into the small den off the kitchen. Dad’s old roll-top desk sat in the corner, covered in a thin layer of dust.

Sheila had told me last week that she couldn’t find the key to it. She claimed she’d have to hire a locksmith to get it open before the sale. Now I knew why Dad had hidden it.

I slid the key into the lock. It turned with a heavy, satisfying click.

I slid the wooden top up. Inside the little cubbyholes were his old pocket watch, his military discharge papers, and a small black velvet box.

My breath caught in my throat.

I opened the velvet box. Inside was my mother’s diamond engagement ring.

When Mother passed, Sheila told me she had searched the whole house and couldn’t find it. She said Mother must have lost it at the hospital, or maybe one of the nurses took it. I had spent hours crying over that lost ring.

But Dad had saved it for me.

Underneath the ring box was a small savings passbook from the credit union. It had my name on the account alongside his. There was just over twelve thousand dollars in it.

I sat down on the dusty floor of the den, holding my mother’s ring in one hand and my dad’s letter in the other, and I just let the tears come.

I cried for the months I spent worrying about him being lonely.

I cried for the way Sheila had treated him at the end, barely looking up from her tablet when he asked for a glass of water. And I cried because even when he was sick and tired, my dad was still finding a way to protect me.

It’s getting late now. The sun is completely down, and the streetlights are coming on outside.

I walked around the house and turned on the porch light. The green paint on the door is peeling a little at the bottom, and I’ll need to get someone to look at the gutters before the fall rains start.

But it’s my house.

I went back to the kitchen door and touched the pencil marks where he used to measure my height every August. The wood is worn smooth right there.