He hadn’t eaten properly in weeks. But that day, my uncle was adamant: “Tuna casserole. The kind with crispy onions on top.”
I made it just like Mom used to, serving it in a paper bowl for old times’ sake. He smiled—really smiled—for the first time in months. Halfway through, he set his fork down and fixed me with a look I’ll never forget.
“There’s something in the attic,” he said, his voice suddenly strong. “Behind the closet. Third floorboard. Promise me you’ll look.”
I promised, though I didn’t understand.
He died that night.
After the funeral, I climbed to the attic, the air thick with dust and memories. The floorboard creaked as I lifted it, revealing a box. Inside, a letter told a story I never expected—of a younger man who’d made terrible choices, who’d carried guilt for years.
And then, the shock: money. A lot of it. “Use it well,” he’d written. “Make it matter.”
I did. I paid off debts, helped my family, donated to causes that could change lives. And with every step, I realized—his past didn’t have to be my burden. His gift wasn’t the money. It was the chance to do better.
