softly against the window over the sink.
The house smelled faintly of coffee, old wood, and the lemon cleaner he used on the counters.
For the first time since he died, the grief in me felt less like an open wound and more like a hand on my shoulder.
He had known exactly what he was doing.
Not because he wanted to make me rich.
Because he wanted to make sure the one person who had loved him plainly would never again have to doubt his own worth.
I put the letter back in its envelope, slid the old passbook beside it, and looked around the quiet kitchen that was full of him.
Then I turned off the light, locked up, and drove home to my wife and son.
Grandpa had been right.
It had not been for then.
It had been for later.
And later had finally arrived.
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