Dad would come home with beer or new fishing gear while I glued the soles back onto my work shoes.

Sometimes we went a week without speaking, passing each other in the hallway like strangers.

Five years later, Dad died suddenly.

For years, I had imagined how peaceful the house would feel without him.

Yet after the funeral, I stood staring at his work boots by the door, unable to put them away.

That evening, his best friend, Marcus, knocked on the door.

He was holding a cardboard box sealed with packing tape.

“Your dad left this with me.”

He set it on the kitchen table.

“He asked me to give it to you only after he was gone.”

I let out a bitter laugh.

“What, did he save every dollar of rent I paid him?”

Marcus didn’t smile.

“I wouldn’t make any guesses until you see what’s inside.”