When my father died, it felt like his final judgment: my sister got the house, and I got an old broken couch and a lifetime of harsh words. Angry and hurt, I sent the couch to be repaired—ready to let go of the last reminder of never being enough.
Then the repairman found a hidden compartment inside.
There were envelopes with savings, a small tin, and a worn notebook in my father’s handwriting. Page after page revealed regrets, fears, and quiet apologies. He wrote about my divorce with concern, not disappointment. He worried I was more fragile than I seemed and needed encouragement, even if he didn’t know how to give it.
The couch was meant for me.
He wasn’t ashamed of me—he was proud.
My sister kept the house, but I left with something more valuable: the truth about my father’s love.