I visited when I could, but time slipped away. Each time, he’d ask, “When am I coming home?” and I’d lie, whispering, “Soon, Dad.” But there was nothing to figure out. My extra shifts paid for his nursing home bill, and my heart broke knowing he spent more time with the staff than me.
Then came the call. The nurse said, “You should come now.” I rushed to his side with my daughter, holding his frail hand. He looked at me with something I couldn’t place, then whispered, “Go… check the trunk in my old shed. You need to know… the truth.”
Two days later, after his passing, I drove to his empty house, where I found the trunk in his shed. Inside were letters, photos, and a journal. It revealed my father’s secret life as an addiction counselor, helping others despite his own struggles.
At his funeral, strangers shared how he’d saved their lives. My guilt faded, replaced by pride in his quiet, selfless legacy. My daughter, with a smile, said she wanted to help people too. And I knew my father’s kindness would live on through her.
