Part 3: The Last Gift Grandpa Left Behind

Three months after Grandpa’s funeral, I received another call from his attorney.

At first, I assumed it was routine paperwork.

Instead, he smiled gently and placed a small wooden box on the table.

“Your grandfather asked that this be given to you exactly ninety days after his funeral.”

Inside was a collection of cassette tapes.

Twenty-four of them.

Each carefully labeled.

Age 5.

Age 10.

Graduation.

Wedding.

The day your first child is born.

For difficult days.

For happy days.

For when you miss me.

I looked up in confusion.

“I don’t understand.”

The attorney smiled.

“He spent nearly three years recording these.”

That evening, I placed the first cassette into an old player Grandpa had kept in his study.

Static crackled.

Then his familiar voice filled the room.

“If you’re listening to this…”

“…it means I’m finally gone.”

I smiled through tears.

“I know you’re probably crying,” he laughed softly.

“Stop that.”

“You’ve always looked terrible when you cry.”

I laughed despite myself.

For the next hour, he told stories I had never heard.

How terrified he was the day my mother was born.

How he almost quit law school.

How Grandma convinced him to keep going.

How proud he had always been of me.

Not because of the inheritance.

Not because I defended him.

Simply because…

“You always made people feel safe.”

I listened until nearly sunrise.

Over the following weeks, the tapes became my Sunday mornings.

Whenever I missed him, I would play another.

Each recording ended exactly the same way.

“Be kinder than life has been to you.”

It slowly became my favorite sentence.

Then, hidden beneath the final cassette, I found one last envelope.

It simply read:

For your father.