I never imagined this position. I just knew Robert as an old man in the hospice where I helped. He had no family, friends, or visitors. Every time I visited, he smiled and said, “Ah, my favorite troublemaker.”
He grasped my wrist last week, his voice weaker. “One last favor, kid,” he muttered. “Please deliver a letter to an address. Give it to the woman. No inquiries, no peeking.”
I hesitated. It was too intimate, but how could you refuse a dying man? I visited the address the next day. The modest residence was clean yet rundown. A fiftysomething woman replied. She gasped when she saw Robert’s handwriting on the envelope. Her hands shook.
“He lives?” She whispered.
She tore the letter before I could respond. Her tears filled her eyes as she perused the paper. I assumed he was dead. “He left us 30 years ago.”
Us? A knot formed in my stomach.
Behind her, a teenage girl asked, “Who’s that, Grandma?”
I almost dropped my keys. The Roberts have a daughter and granddaughter.
I assumed that was the twist. I returned to the hospice to tell him, and the nurse met me at the door. Shaking her head. Im sorry… Robert died this morning.”
I stood there, letter still warm in my pocket from the woman, realizing he sent me there knowing he wouldn’t hear how it went.
However, the nurse stopped me as I left. “Wait. Something was left for you.”
She gave me a tiny, sealed packet.
In my car, I stared at the envelope. My name was scrawled in Robert’s unsteady hand. I debated waiting, but my intuition told me this wasn’t a thank-you note. Breathing deeply, I tore it open.
A single paper with a brief message was inside.
I’m gone, kid. The truth was my duty. Union Storage unit #237 locker. You’ll know.
A locker? What the hell was Robert keeping there?
Curiosity gnawed. I should have gone home, but I drove straight to Union Storage, my heart racing with every turn.
The storage facility held forgotten items that gathered dust. The manager barely glanced at me when I displayed the memo and said Robert gave me permission. After checking the system, he gave me a key and waved me to the unit.
Standing before locker #237, I paused. I expected what? A box of old letters? Maybe Robert never shared his old photos? The metal door groaned open when I twisted the key.
One wooden trunk was inside. A heavy one. Draw it out and flip the lock. The lid creaked when I lifted it.
My body froze.
Lots of cash. Half the trunk was filled with rubber-banded $100 bills. Under them were old notebooks, yellowed documents, and a Polaroid snapshot of Robert, possibly in his twenties, standing with a woman who looked hauntingly familiar.
I shuffled papers. Bank statements, receipts, fading birth certificate. And then I noticed it—a letter to Robert’s daughter.
I drove to the tiny house mindlessly. Shaking hands, I knocked again. The records told me her name was Linda, and she glanced at me cautiously.
“You’re back,” she said. She spoke harshly, like she was crying.
“I need to show you something,” I said.
I put the trunk on the coffee table after she allowed me in. She gasped when she saw her name on the mail. Her hands trembled while unfolding.
I listened patiently as she read, her face changing from shock to grief to comprehension.
When done, she wiped her eyes.
“He left because he thought he had to,” she muttered. “He did something bad. He wanted back but was frightened it would endanger us. So he vanished.”
Swallowed hard.
“He didn’t want us to struggle, though,” she said, looking at the money. “He saved that for us.”
Linda’s granddaughter, a teenager, peered over her shoulder. “Mom’s going to want to see this,” she whispered.
Linda nodded, a sad grin appearing.
“He never stopped loving us,” she whispered. “Even after those years.”
I noticed something while driving outside my apartment later that night.
Robert didn’t ask to be forgiven. He understood history was unchangeable. Even though it was too late, he wanted to fix things.
Sometimes life presents insurmountable options. Sometimes we can only try to fix what we broke remotely.
I checked my phone for people I hadn’t spoken to in years and numbers I was hesitant to call.
Maybe I should fix some things in my life too.
Robert’s story went beyond redemption. Love, regret, and leaving things were discussed.
Share if this story affected you. Who knows whose heart it will touch. It may encourage someone to fix things before it’s too late.
