My father was a man of few words, a person who believed that language was often a poor substitute for action. He lived a life that most would describe as simple, perhaps even austere. He drove a truck that had seen the better part of two decades, wore flannel shirts until the elbows wore through, and found his greatest joy in a hot cup of black coffee on the front porch before the sun came up. He never amassed a fortune, never chased accolades, and never seemed to want for anything he didn’t already have. He was the steady, quiet hum in the background of my life—always there, always reliable, but rarely the center of attention.
When he passed away a few weeks ago, the silence he left behind was deafening. It wasn’t just the loss of a parent; it was the loss of a foundational pillar. As I navigated the murky waters of grief, handling the funeral arrangements and the endless paperwork that accompanies death, I assumed his estate would be as uncomplicated as his life had been. I expected a modest savings account, perhaps his old truck, and a box of sentimental trinkets. So, when his lawyer summoned me to his office for the reading of the will, I went with a heavy heart but no great expectations.
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