At the bank, my hands shook so hard I could barely enter the code. I expected documents, maybe an old letter, anything that would let me feel him close one more time. Instead, I found a small case, heavy and cold. Inside, rows of gold jewelry gleamed back at me, quietly rewriting everything I thought I knew about our last years together.
His note lay on top, written in his slow, careful hand. He confessed that he had once planned this treasure for his children, but their indifference during his illness had changed his heart. These were now mine, he wrote, not as payment, but as protection. Proof that someone had truly seen my loyalty, my sleepless nights, my silent grief. Standing there, clutching his words, I realized I hadn’t been left with nothing. I had been entrusted with a chance to start again.
