A Secret Gift: The Story of One Fate

The first thing I heard was the sizzle—bacon popping on the skillet, and my dad’s heavy boots thumping across our linoleum kitchen floor. The clock said 5:13 a.m., but in our house, sunrise always meant one thing: Dad was heading out for another day of fishing on Lake Erie. I dragged myself out of bed, groggy and annoyed, because no matter how much I wished for a normal Saturday like my friends had—cartoons, cereal, maybe the mall—my dad, Tom, was always up before dawn, prepping bait and sandwiches. He said it was our tradition, but to me, it felt more like a sentence.

“Danny, you up?” his voice thundered from the hallway, and I flinched, pulling on my hoodie. He never waited for an answer. “We leave in five.”

I shuffled to the kitchen where the air was thick with grease and the smell of burnt toast. Dad was moving like a storm, tossing bread into bags, checking the tackle box, his brow furrowed like he was already fighting the fish. Mom was nowhere in sight. She’d started working the night shift at St. Joseph’s two months ago, and lately, it felt like she only existed as a note on the fridge: “Eggs in pan. Love you both.”

I watched Dad’s hands—big, callused, always moving. He shoved a sandwich at me. “Eat, you’ll need it.”

I hated fishing. But I hated disappointing him more.

The drive to the lake was silent except for the local radio playing old country songs. I stared out the window at gray Ohio fields, my stomach twisting. I couldn’t tell if it was hunger or dread. Dad broke the silence only once, his voice soft for the first time that morning: “You know, your grandpa taught me to fish when I was your age. Said it was in our blood.”

I looked at him, hoping he’d say more, but he just gripped the wheel tighter.

The dock was empty, the sun just a smear on the horizon. We loaded onto his rusted boat—The Destiny, in peeling blue paint—and pushed off into the mist. For the first hour, I did what I always did: pretended to care, nodded at his advice, and wished I could be anywhere else. But then, just as I was about to close my eyes and tune out, everything changed.

Dad reached into his old tackle box and pulled out something I’d never seen before—a small, velvet pouch. He handed it to me, his eyes suddenly serious. “It’s time you knew, Danny.”

I opened the pouch and found a weird, ancient-looking coin. It was heavy and cold in my palm, stamped with some kind of strange symbol. I looked up, confused.

“It’s been passed down from father to son in our family for generations,” he said, voice low. “It’s supposed to bring luck—but it’s more than that. Every man in our family who’s held it… they’ve been able to sense things. Things about people. About what’s coming. Your grandpa used to call it a gift.”

I laughed, thinking it was a joke. “So, we’re psychic now?”

He didn’t smile. “It’s real, Danny. I never wanted it, but… it’s yours now. You’ll feel it soon enough.”

I stared at the coin, my heart pounding. I didn’t want a gift. I wanted out.

The next few days were a blur. At first, nothing happened. I kept the coin in my pocket, waiting to feel something. At school, I was distracted—kids laughed as I spaced out in math, and my best friend, Tyler, asked if I was sick. At night, I heard my parents fighting in hushed voices about money and Mom’s crazy shifts. I started to feel things: a cold shiver when my teacher lied about grading papers, a hot flash of dread when Tyler told me he was going to sneak out that night. I thought I was losing my mind.

I tried to tell Dad, but he just nodded, like he expected it. “It’s heavy, son. But it’s part of who we are.”

I didn’t want it to be. I wanted to run.

One night, Mom came home early, her eyes red. I heard her and Dad in the kitchen—arguing about bills, about me. She wanted me to focus on school, go to college, get out of this place. Dad wanted me to stay, to fish, to carry on the tradition. I remember standing in the hallway, that coin burning in my pocket, feeling like I was being torn in two.

The next morning, Tyler’s mom called. He’d been in a car accident—he’d snuck out, just like he said. He was okay, but hurt bad. I’d felt it, the night before, but I hadn’t said anything. The guilt was like a physical ache.

I didn’t leave my room for two days. Dad knocked once, then left me alone. When I finally came out, Mom was waiting at the table. She held my hand, her voice soft. “You don’t have to be what anyone expects, Danny. Not even us.”

I looked at the coin, then at her. “But what if it’s my fate?”

She smiled, tears in her eyes. “Fate’s just another word for choice.”

I carry the coin still, but I don’t let it define me. I visit Tyler every day. I help out at the lake, but I also signed up for college tours. My dad still thinks fishing is in my blood, but I know now that who I am—what I choose—matters more than any secret gift or family legacy.

Sometimes I still wonder: is destiny something you inherit, or something you make yourself? And if you could sense what’s coming, would you have the courage to change it? What would you do?