I told my dad that we couldn’t assist pay for his trip to retire, but he just answered, “Your presence is enough.” But when we went to the cabin, he gave my brother and me each a big box. My one didn’t have anything in it. The whole time, I smiled. Later that night, I looked at my brother’s mail and saw a cheque for $15,000.
My stomach hurt. I carefully put it back in the envelope and then put it back in my brother’s duffel bag. I wasn’t trying to steal anything. I had to see it with my own eyes.
Dad told me the same thing he told Patrick: this weekend was only for relaxing and celebrating his retirement after 42 years of work. He had worked as a plumber for much of his life and had to take care of two kids after their mother died. He never really got a break. Everyone agreed that he should spend a few days at that cottage.
Still, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sorrow in my heart—jealousy? Hurt? It might be both. My family had been going through a lot of hard times for a long time. Last winter, Rachel, my wife, lost her job, and I was working two shifts at the auto parts factory. Last month, we barely had enough money to pay our rent. That check may have made a lot of worries go away.
Of course, Patrick never had any big problems; people always thought of him as the “responsible one.” He always saved money, used it carefully, and got raises on a regular basis. They lived in a luxurious house, drove new cars, and sent their kids to private school with his wife. So he didn’t need the money.
The next morning, I sat with Dad on the porch. He drank his coffee like nothing was wrong, even though the lake sparkled and birds sang. I wanted to say something about the envelopes. Why did Patrick get a gift and I didn’t? Did I make a mistake?
I asked, “Are you sleeping well?” instead.
He nodded.
I said, “Pretty good,” even though it wasn’t.
Later, Patrick came out with a big smile on his face and said he would make breakfast. He joked about fishing and hiking and said we should play cards like we used to when we were kids. This made me question whether he knew that I hadn’t gained anything.
By Sunday morning, I was having a hard time enjoying the fishing, the food, or even the stories Dad told about his work days. Finally, when Rachel and I were alone in the kitchen, I took her aside.
“I think Dad gave Patrick $15,000,” I remarked in a low voice. “I didn’t get anything.”
She looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
“I checked the check. My envelope was empty.
She sighed and put her hand on my arm. “Okay, but there might be more to it.” He might have something different planned for you.
I wanted to believe that. But I didn’t really want to. Until the weekend was gone, Dad didn’t say anything else about the envelopes. He never left me alone. There was no explanation given.
A week later, Patrick called. We hadn’t talked since the vacation. “Hey, I wanted to ask you… did Dad send you a check too?”
My heart stopped. “What?”
He talked in a lower voice. “I asked that because I thought it was strange.” He wrote “This is a test” in tiny characters on the back of mine.
I paused.
“Are you taking a test?” I asked.
“Yes.” He hasn’t called me back since then.
That night, I told Rachel, and she grimaced and leaned back. “Perhaps he was testing you both. He was putting you both through tests to see what you could do.
That thought stuck with me for days. I thought about Dad and how he always taught us to be honest, strong, and humble. He gave us both the same amount of money when we were teenagers and then secretly observed while Patrick saved and I spent. He didn’t yell at me then. He said, “The choices you make are showing me who you are becoming.”
I wondered if this envelope thing was another lesson he was attempting to teach me.
Dad asked me to lunch three weeks later. There were only two of us. We met at his usual diner, which had booths that were greasy and mugs that were broken. He didn’t take any time.
“I know you looked,” he said, his eyes calm, not angry.
I stopped moving my fork to my mouth. “I’m sorry.” I had to know, though.
He nodded. “I thought so.” That’s why I didn’t close it.
My mouth became dry. “How did the test go?”
He moaned, had some coffee, and then leaned forward. “I gave Patrick that money to see if he would share it.” It’s not the cheque that matters; it’s the time. Say something about it. Say something about it. Ask if you have something too. Anything at all. I told him years ago that family is more important than money. He didn’t do it.
I sat back in disbelief.
“But what about me?” I asked. “How about me?”
“You didn’t fail,” he remarked. “You got harmed, but you didn’t try to get it. You didn’t make a big deal out of it. I know you’ve been holding on to a lot. That’s why I have something else for you.
He pulled a manila envelope out of his coat pocket and slid it across the table. I opened it carefully, my hands shaking.
Inside was a deed.
I stared at it for a long time and could hardly read it. “Hey Dad, this is your house.”
He nodded yes. “Now it’s yours.” Paid back. I’m moving into the condo that I bought last year. I didn’t inform anyone since I didn’t know how to fix it. But you have three kids, and paying rent is hard for you. “This is the start of something new for you.”
Tears filled my eyes. “Why me?”
“Because you need it.” And because you performed your part without becoming upset. “Hey, son.”
I couldn’t say anything. I just nodded and tried not to cry in that dirty booth.
The next month, we moved into Dad’s old house. The kids were quite happy. There was a room for each of them. Rachel put tomatoes in the backyard. We weren’t just getting by anymore; we were living.
Patrick called me a few weeks later and was quite angry.
“Did he give you the house?” “You must be joking.”
I told him everything, like the test, how Dad was watching everything attentively, and what happened with the second package at the diner.
He stopped talking and then said, “I thought it was a gift for me.” I didn’t think to ask.
“I know,” I said. “That’s the point.”
There was a long pause. “I guess I didn’t do well, huh?”
I said, “Maybe.” “But maybe it’s not too late.”
And Patrick did something that surprised me, which is wonderful for him. He wrote a $5,000 check and sent it to Lydia, our sister, who lived in another state and was going through a divorce. I heard that she cried when she got it.
Dad called me that night and said, “There might still be hope for him.”
We both laughed.
As time went on, things became better. Patrick came by more often. He helped fix the garage roof and brought the kids fishing poles. He even commented, “You deserved the house” one night when they were drinking. I needed to wake up.
I said, “Sometimes we all need one.”
That empty envelope taught me more than a full one ever could. It taught me that being patient, showing up even when it’s hard, and being the kind of person who does the right thing without needing to be seen are all good things.
Dad never gave us a talk. He learned from life.
I’m just happy that I finally paid attention.
If this story struck a chord with you, please think about sharing it with someone who could use a reminder that character is more important than money. Don’t forget to like the post to show your support; these times are really important.
