I closed the lid gently and held it against my chest. For the first time, I understood that my father had never failed at life—he had quietly mastered it. He found purpose not in recognition, but in service, honesty, and steady devotion. As I stood in his old garage, sunlight streaming through the dusty windows, I realized that the distance I once imagined between us had been something I had created, not him. His love had always been there, patient and unwavering, waiting for me to finally see it. And in that moment, surrounded by his tools and his words, I felt closer to him than ever before—grateful, humbled, and determined to honor the life he built by learning, at last, what truly matters.
