I grew up. I finished school, found a job, created routines, and built something that looked like stability. On the outside, I was fine.
Last week, after more than a decade of avoiding it, I finally decided to clean out his old workshop behind the house. The door hadn’t been opened in years. Dust clung to the windowpanes, and the scent of old tools, wood shavings, and motor oil drifted out as soon as I stepped inside. For a moment, it was as if he had just stepped out to run an errand and would return any minute.
I started clearing shelves and sweeping the floor. Then, near the workbench, a loose board shifted beneath my foot. I almost kept going, but something made me kneel down. I lifted the plank and found a small, worn bag tucked underneath—the same bag my father used to carry everywhere, the one he would toss over his shoulder on his way out the door.
My hands shook as I unzipped it.
Inside was a tiny safe-deposit key and a folded piece of paper. It had been creased and re-creased so many times the edges had softened. I unfolded it, and there, written in my father’s unmistakable handwriting, were five words that stopped me cold:
