The rooks were the two family houses, our childhood home and Grandpa’s cabin.
The pawns were carved to look like tools, each one different, representing the trades and skills our family was built on.
Hammers, saws, chisels, wrenches.
I spent three months on it.
Three months of staying up until 2:00 in the morning, sanding, shaping, detailing.
I hand-finished every piece with tung oil.
I built the board from walnut and maple, alternating squares with precision joints that would have made a furniture maker proud.
I even lined the inside of the box with velvet and engraved a small brass plate on the lid that read, “To Dad. 60 years of building things that last. Love, Michael.”
I wrapped it carefully in brown craft paper and tied it with twine.
I drove to my parents’ house the night of the party, feeling something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Hope.
Real, stupid, vulnerable hope.
The kind that makes you feel like a kid again, even when you know better.
The party was nice. My mom had done the whole thing. Streamers, a cake from the bakery downtown, a playlist of my dad’s favorite country songs.
About 30 people showed up. Neighbors, guys from the job sites, a few cousins.
Trent was there with his wife Candace and their two kids.
I showed up alone.
I’d been single for about a year, which was another thing my dad liked to comment on.
“You’d find a girl if you put down the sandpaper once in a while.”
Hilarious.
When it came time for gifts, Trent went first.
He handed Dad a box, and inside was a watch. A nice one, sure. A Seiko. Probably 200 bucks.
My dad’s face lit up like Trent had just handed him the deed to a lake house.
He put it on immediately, held his wrist up, showed everyone.
“Now that’s a watch,” he said. “My boy knows what I like.”
Then it was my turn.
I handed over the wrapped box. It was heavy.
My dad took it, hefted it, and unwrapped it slowly.
He opened the lid.
He looked at the chess set.
He looked at the pieces.
He picked up the king, turned it over, set it back down, and he said, “Huh, that’s something.”
Then he closed the lid, set it on the table next to the cake plates, and said, “Who wants another beer?”
That was it.
That was the reaction to three months of my life, carved into wood and handed over on a velvet-lined prayer.
“Huh, that’s something.”
I stayed another hour.
I smiled. I made small talk. I watched my dad show off his new watch to everyone who walked by.
And then I went home.
I sat in my truck in the driveway for a while.
I didn’t cry. I was past crying about it.
I just felt hollow, like someone had scooped out everything inside me and left the shell sitting in the driver’s seat.
But that wasn’t even the worst part.
The worst part came the next morning.
I went back to my parents’ house the next morning because I’d left my jacket on the back of a kitchen chair.
It was early, maybe 7:30. I figured I’d slip in, grab it, maybe have a cup of coffee with my mom if she was up.
Simple, in and out, no big deal.
I pulled into the driveway, and the first thing I noticed was the trash cans.
They were at the curb because pickup was that morning.
Nothing unusual about that, but something caught my eye.
Sitting on top of the recycling bin, slightly tilted, was a brown paper bag.
And sticking out of it was a corner of brown craft paper.
The same craft paper I’d wrapped the chess set in.
I got out of the truck and walked over like my legs were moving on their own.
I pulled the bag open.
There it was.
The chess set, still in the wrapping.
The twine was still tied.
He hadn’t even opened it again after the party.
He’d just taken it off the table and thrown it away with the paper plates and used napkins.
Three months of work. Hours and hours of carving, sanding, finishing, engraving.