I used to resent my dad for fixing cars. I thought he’d failed at life. I became an engineer and told him, “I made it farther than you.” He just smiled. Four months after he died, I found a toolbox with my name on it. I froze, inside were dozens… of handwritten notes, each folded with the same careful precision he used when tucking away spare bolts or polishing old wrenches. The toolbox smelled faintly of engine oil and cedar—his favorite combination. Under every tool, taped to the bottom, tucked into side pockets, were messages he had written for me over the years. Some were instructions on how to repair everyday things. Others were memories of moments I had long forgotten. A few were simply reminders: “Proud of you.” “Be patient with yourself.” “You don’t have to be perfect to be worthy.” I sat on the garage floor, overwhelmed, realizing that the man I had once judged so harshly had been quietly building something far greater than a career—he had been building a life around loving me. Continue reading…
