After Dad’s funeral, I inherited his classic Mustang. Driving it home, a cop car followed me and pulled into my driveway. The officer demanded I open the trunk. Confused and scared, I complied. Inside, he found an old, black box. He asked if the car was my dad’s, and I confirmed. He then showed me a letter from my dad:
“Jonathan,
Thank you for supporting me after my mom died. I kept all the toys and sweets you gave me. I’m leaving my Mustang to Bill. The box with the toys is hidden in the trunk.
Your pal, Arnie”
Jonathan, the cop, was Dad’s childhood friend. The box contained their shared memories: toys, sports cards, letters, and uneaten sweets. Jonathan explained how his gifts helped Dad cope with his mother’s death. I felt overwhelmed by this revelation.
Jonathan’s eyes filled with tears. “Your dad valued our friendship immensely. He wanted you to know about it.”
I handed Jonathan the box, emotions flooding me. “Thank you for being there for him and for sharing this with me.”
Over time, Jonathan became a close family friend. We spent holidays together, and his family embraced me. Sitting in Dad’s Mustang, Jonathan said, “Your dad would be proud of you, Bill.”
“Thanks, Jonathan. You’ve given me a piece of my dad I didn’t know was missing.”
As we sat there, surrounded by memories, I realized that even in death, Dad had brought us together. And in that, there was a kind of peace.
