The first page said: “If you’re reading this, I’m glad you came.” My hands trembled as I turned the paper. His handwriting was shaky, but careful, like he didn’t want to waste a single word. “Sundays were my favorite days again because of you. The house didn’t feel so empty when I knew you were on your way.”
I swallowed hard, remembering every quiet visit, every cup of tea we shared. He had always smiled, even when silence filled the room.
The next lines hit deeper. “I heard what they said—that you were wasting time. But you gave me something time can’t measure. You gave me company when loneliness was louder than anything else.”
Tears blurred the ink. Around me, the cousins had gone quiet.
I kept reading. “I didn’t leave much behind, but what I have, I’ve written in my will. Not because you visited, but because you cared when no one else did.”
A small envelope slipped from the pages. Inside was a photo of us sitting on the porch, laughing at nothing important.
For the first time, I understood—it was never about the weekends I gave up.
It was about the ones he got back.
