He opened the envelope.
Inside was a letter written in my father’s handwriting.
It turned out that, for the last few months of his life, my father had been preparing something for me.
I had collected photographs of my childhood, letters from my mother, small notes
from my school years and even old postcards I had given her when I was a child.
I had asked Richard to keep everything safe.
But the biggest surprise was still inside the suitcase.
Documents.
Years earlier, my father had opened a small savings account in my name and would put money in him every month.
It’s not huge amounts.
Sometimes only twenty or thirty dollars.
But with the step of
The years, he had accumulated enough that he could finally pursue the dream my father knew since my college years.
Open my own little photography studio.
