I never expected to be in this position. I barely knew Robert—just some old man in the hospice where I volunteered. He didn’t have visitors, no family, no one. But every time I came by, he’d smile and say, “Ah, my favorite troublemaker.”
Last week, he grabbed my wrist, voice weaker than usual. “One last favor, kid,” he whispered. “Take this letter. No questions, no peeking.”
The next day, I knocked on a tiny, worn-down house. A woman in her fifties answered. The moment she saw Robert’s handwriting, her hands trembled.
“He’s alive?” she whispered.
Before I could answer, she ripped it open, eyes filling with tears. “He left us 30 years ago.”
Us?
Then, a teenage girl appeared. “Who’s that, Grandma?”
Robert had a daughter—and a granddaughter.
I thought that was the twist. But when I returned to tell him, the nurse met me at the door. “I’m sorry… Robert passed this morning.”
Then she handed me an envelope.
Inside: “Check locker #237. You’ll understand.”
At Union Storage, I found a trunk—stuffed with cash, old letters, and a letter for his daughter.
Robert hadn’t asked for forgiveness. He just wanted to make things right.
Maybe I should, too.
Life doesn’t wait. Don’t let regret be your final letter.
