A few months after my dad passed, settling his estate was simple—everyone got what they expected. But the lawyer read one final line: “For my daughter — the key to the place I kept closest to my heart.”
I followed the address to a downtown apartment. Inside, it wasn’t secrets I found, but warmth: shelves of books, a cozy reading chair, and a desk stacked with notebooks.
Opening one, I discovered hundreds of letters written to me over the years—reflections, love, lessons, and quiet honesty. Each one carried a piece of him, the words he never said aloud.
The last envelope explained his gift: a space to hold the love he couldn’t always express. Surrounded by his letters, I felt not loss, but gratitude. The greatest inheritance, I realized, isn’t wealth—it’s enduring love.
