A wristwatch used to feel like a real luxury when I was a kid—not because of its price, but because of what it represented. Watches were for adults who had responsibilities, places to be, and people depending on them; my parents owned one good watch, worn carefully and never replaced casually. Time back then was called out from another room or guessed by the sun, so owning a watch meant you had “made it” into adulthood. Today, I can easily buy one without much thought, but wearing it still feels bittersweet—it reminds me how far life has come and how much silent effort our parents put in to make stability look normal.