My grandfather was famous in our family for his habits, and not in a flattering way. He reused envelopes until they were nearly transparent, saved rubber bands in jars, and switched off lights as if electricity came straight from his own pocket. As kids, we laughed. As adults, we rolled our eyes. He seemed obsessed with saving things long past their usefulness.
So when he passed away and I learned my inheritance was a single, wrinkled one-hundred-dollar coupon tucked inside an old book, I felt disappointed. The book was filled with handwritten grocery prices from decades ago, and the coupon looked ancient. I assumed it was expired and almost threw it away.
Something stopped me. Maybe curiosity. Maybe the sense that my grandfather never kept anything without reason. On a whim, I drove to the store listed on the coupon. It still existed. When I handed it to the cashier, she froze and called the manager. After a quiet discussion, they explained it came from a loyalty program never officially expired.
They honored it. In that moment, I understood my grandfather hadn’t been hoarding junk—he believed in patience. He left me perspective, not money.
