Between Us: The Knife

The house felt heavy with memories as Emma worked her way through her father’s belongings. The air smelled faintly of wood and dust, the house’s age pressing down on her as she opened the old wooden box that sat on his dresser. Her father had kept so much of his life in things—tools, knives, old maps—but never in words. That was who he was, she thought, a man of objects, not of conversation. 

Among the various items, one thing caught her eye—a pocket knife, resting in the box’s corner. The handle was worn and smooth, dark wood marked with age and use. The initials *J.M* were faintly etched into the side, barely legible now after years of handling. The blade, once sharp, had dulled, but it still looked capable in the way that her father had always seemed capable. She turned it over in her hands, and the familiar weight brought back a flood of memories.

The knife had been a gift from her father on her 16th birthday. He had handed it to her with a quick, almost apologetic smile, his eyes darting around the room as though he didn’t quite know what to say.

*“For protection,”* he had said, his voice as distant as ever.

At 16, Emma had been furious. What was she supposed to do with a knife? All she had wanted was time with him, to talk about her life or her plans for the future, anything that would show he cared about more than work and his own hobbies. But instead, he gave her a tool, something practical, cold, and impersonal.

She had shoved it into the back of her closet not long after. To her, it symbolized everything about their relationship that she hated. He was always focused on practical things—how to survive, how to be prepared, how to fix things—but never on the emotional side of being a father. The knife was just another way for him to avoid dealing with his feelings, to avoid dealing with *her*.

Now, ten years later, the knife sat in her hands, and her father was gone. He had passed away suddenly, a heart attack in the middle of the night, and she hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye. She hadn’t even had the chance to be angry at him properly, to tell him how she had felt all these years, how hurt she had been by his distance. The weight of those unsaid words hung in the air like smoke, suffocating her as she looked down at the blade.

---

The funeral had been small. Her father didn’t have many friends left; most of them had drifted away as he grew older and more isolated. Greg, his closest friend and hunting buddy, was one of the few who came to pay his respects. He and her father had shared a bond built on silence and routine, the kind of friendship that didn't need words. Emma had always found it strange—how could two people spend so much time together and say so little? She had watched them sit side by side on the porch, sipping coffee or beer, their quiet companionship a world she was never invited into. 

As Greg placed a hand on her shoulder after the service, his voice low and gravelly, he said, *"Your dad was a good man, Em. Tough as nails, but he cared."* 

Emma smiled tightly, biting back the automatic response on her tongue. *Cared?* Maybe he cared in his own way, but it wasn’t the way she needed. She wondered if Greg ever saw the side of her father that she had—the emotionally distant, almost mechanical way he went about life, treating relationships like chores or duties rather than connections to be nurtured. 

The knife in her hand felt heavier now, as if it carried the weight of everything unsaid between them. She turned it over again, tracing the worn initials with her thumb. *J.M.* Her father’s initials. John Mason. A man of few words, fewer apologies, and even less understanding when it came to his only daughter. 

---

Later that evening, Emma sat at the kitchen table, the knife still resting in front of her. She had thought about throwing it away, but something stopped her. It was strange—after all these years, after all the frustration and resentment she had built up, this simple object had somehow survived. It had been there, lurking in the background of her life, much like her father had. Present, but distant. 

She thought back to the last time they had spoken. It had been about six months before he passed. They’d had one of their usual conversations—brief, functional, and filled with the awkward pauses that always seemed to hang between them. He had called to ask if she had remembered to get her car serviced. Typical of him. Not *how are you?* or *how’s work?* but a question about oil changes and tire rotations. 

*“Yeah, Dad. I took care of it,”* she had replied, her voice clipped. She had wanted to say more, to ask him why he never bothered to really talk to her, but the words never came. They never did. 

Now, the finality of his death hit her with the force of a punch to the gut. The chance to ask him, to confront him, was gone. The knife was all she had left—a small, silent symbol of their relationship. Practical. Useful. But empty of the warmth she had always craved from him.

Emma stood up and walked to the window, staring out at the backyard. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the overgrown grass. The house felt too big, too quiet now. She had never liked being here, even when she was a child. Her father had bought the house when she was eight, right after her mother had passed. It had been a sudden move, something he did without consulting her, like most decisions in their lives.

She remembered the first night they had moved in. The house had felt unfamiliar, the creaks and groans of its old frame unsettling in the darkness. Emma had lain awake, listening to the sounds of the night, waiting for her father to come in and check on her, to offer some kind of reassurance. But he never did. Instead, he had spent the evening in the garage, tinkering with some old engine or sharpening his tools, leaving her to navigate the strange new world on her own.

---

Emma pulled herself away from the window and went back to the table. She picked up the knife again, turning it over in her hands. It was more than just a tool now. It was a reminder of everything she had lost—and everything she had never had. 

She wondered if her father had ever known how she felt. Did he understand the pain his silence caused her? Or had he been oblivious, caught up in his own world of practicality and survival? It was hard to say. Her father had been a man of action, not words. He had built things, fixed things, prepared for worst-case scenarios. But he had never learned how to express the softer emotions—the ones that required vulnerability and openness. 

The knife was a perfect example of that. He had given it to her on her sixteenth birthday, not as a symbol of love or care, but as a tool for protection. A way to keep herself safe in a world he saw as dangerous and unpredictable. 

*“You never know when you might need it,”* he had said, handing it to her with a nod. 

But Emma hadn’t wanted protection. She had wanted connection. She had wanted her father to see her, to really *see* her, as more than just someone to be safeguarded. 

---

Now, ten years later, she was beginning to understand something that had eluded her before. Her father had shown his love in the only way he knew how—through actions, not words. The knife wasn’t just a tool. It was his way of saying, *I want you to be safe. I care about your well-being.* 

But it had taken her a decade to recognize that. And now it was too late to tell him she finally understood.

---

The next few days passed in a blur as Emma worked to clear out the rest of her father’s belongings. The house was filled with remnants of his life—old hunting gear, maps of trails he had hiked, tools he had meticulously maintained over the years. Everything seemed to serve a purpose, just like the knife. 

She found herself lingering over certain items, wondering if they held deeper meanings she had missed before. There was a worn leather wallet, cracked and faded from years of use, and an old watch that had stopped ticking long ago. She realized that her father had held on to these things, despite their age and wear, because they had meant something to him. They were more than just objects—they were pieces of his history, reminders of a life lived on his terms. 

Emma sat down on the couch, feeling the weight of it all pressing in on her. She was surrounded by the ghosts of her father’s past, and yet she felt more alone than ever. There was no one left to ask about his life, no one to fill in the gaps of his story. 

She picked up the knife again, running her fingers along the smooth handle. It felt almost comforting now, a connection to the man she had spent so many years trying to understand. 

---

That night, Emma dreamed of her father. In the dream, they were sitting on the porch of the old house, just like he used to with Greg. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over everything. Her father was sharpening the knife, the rhythmic scrape of metal on stone filling the silence between them. 

For once, the silence didn’t feel oppressive. It felt peaceful. 

*“You know I never meant to hurt you,”* her father said, not looking up from his task. 

Emma nodded, unable to speak. The words were stuck in her throat, a lump of emotion she couldn’t swallow. 

*“I just didn’t know how to... talk about things,”* he continued, his voice calm and steady. 

She wanted to tell him that she understood now. That she saw him in a way she hadn’t before. But before she could say anything, the dream faded, and she was left alone in the darkness of her bedroom. 

---

The next morning, Emma woke up feeling lighter. The resentment that had weighed her down for so long had begun to lift, replaced by a quiet sense of acceptance. Her father had been who he was, flaws and all. He had loved her in the only way he knew how, and while it hadn’t been the kind of love she had wanted, it had still been love.

She got up and went to the kitchen, the knife still on the table where she had left it the night before. This time, when she picked it up, it didn’t feel heavy with unspoken words or unresolved emotions. It felt like a part of her father—a small, tangible piece of the man who had shaped her life in ways she was only beginning to understand. 

Emma slid the knife into her pocket, feeling its familiar weight settle against her. She didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time in a long time, she felt ready to face it. The knife, once a symbol of her father’s emotional distance, had become something else entirely. It was a reminder of his love, quiet and unspoken, but real nonetheless.

As she stepped outside into the crisp morning air, she smiled to herself. Her father had always told her to be prepared for anything. Now, with the knife in her pocket and his memory in her heart, she felt like she finally was.

---

In the days that followed, Emma found herself thinking more about the nature of her relationship with her father. She had spent so many years focused on what she hadn’t received from him—emotional openness, verbal affirmation, a sense of closeness—that she had missed the ways in which he had tried to connect with her. His actions, while subtle and often misunderstood, had been his way of showing love.

The knife, once a source of bitterness, had become a symbol of that realization. It was a tool, yes, but it was also more than that. It represented her father’s desire to protect her, to equip her for the world in the only way he knew how. He had given her something practical because that’s what he valued—practicality, survival, self-reliance.

Emma thought back to all the times her father had tried to teach her things—how to change a tire, how to read a map, how to fix a leaky faucet. At the time, she had seen these lessons as cold and impersonal, just like the knife. But now, she realized they were his way of giving her the tools she needed to navigate life. He hadn’t been able to offer emotional guidance, but he had given her something else—something just as valuable in its own way.

As Emma continued to sort through her father’s belongings, she felt a growing sense of peace. She was no longer angry with him for his silence, no longer resentful of the ways in which he had fallen short as a father. Instead, she felt a quiet understanding, a recognition that love can take many forms, even if they aren’t always the ones we expect.

The knife, once tucked away and forgotten, was now a constant presence in her life. She carried it with her, not just as a tool, but as a reminder of her father’s love. It was a love that had been hard to see, buried beneath layers of practicality and stoicism, but it had been there all along.