Daddy’s Last Gift

I got a call this week that reminded me why I do what I do.

A former client’s daughter was on the other end of the line. Her father had passed.

I didn’t know her, but I remembered him and his wife. Salt of the earth types.

I remembered that he was a guitar player. We talked about that almost as much as we talked about estate planning. His wife consistently steered us back on track, and we ultimately designed a plan that protected them and their family.

Susan called me a few weeks after her father passed.

Not in a panic.
Not overwhelmed.
Quiet.

She wondered if I could help her and her sister with his estate. Her mom had passed a few years earlier, and now the trust we had designed needed to be carried out and a few things needed to be cleaned up.

While we were on the phone she said,

“My dad left me something.
Not money. Something else.”

When we met, she brought a small cardboard box.

The kind you’d use to store photos or Christmas ornaments.

On the lid, in his handwriting, were three words:

For My Girls.

Inside were neatly stacked folders.

Rubber-banded.
Labeled.
Organized.

This wasn’t how things were stored when her mom died.

He had learned.

So he’d done this alone.

Without fanfare.
Without announcing it.
Without asking for credit.

He’d just… prepared.

Inside the Box

There were the obvious things.

His will and trust.
Property records.
Insurance policies.
Account lists.

But there were also other things.

A list of passwords.
A page called “People to Call.”
Notes explaining why he’d made certain choices.

And, tucked in the back, a handwritten letter.

Not long.

Just a page.

It started with:

“If you’re reading this, I’ve already gone home. But I wanted you to know…”

She stopped reading aloud at that point.

Her voice caught.

We took a minute.

“He Was Always Like This”

She told me her dad wasn’t emotional.

Didn’t talk much about feelings.
Didn’t give long speeches.

He fixed things.
He showed up.
He paid attention.

This was how he loved.

Quietly.
Practically.
Faithfully.

What He Quietly Saved Them From

Because of that box, his daughters never had to:

• Dig through drawers
• Argue over paperwork
• Guess what he wanted
• Fight deadlines
• Worry about money

They grieved.

Of course they did.

But they didn’t drown in logistics.

They had space to remember him.

To tell stories.

To heal.

That was the gift.

The Kind of Inheritance That Doesn’t Show Up on a Statement

When people hear “estate planning,” they think dollars.

Assets.
Accounts.
Property.

But sometimes the greatest inheritance is peace.

Knowing:

“I’ve got this.”
“He thought of us.”
“We’re going to be okay.”

That’s priceless.

A Front Porch Reflection

Most parents never think of themselves as leaving a “last gift.”

They think they’re just signing papers.
Making lists.
Being responsible.

But every now and then, I see it from the other side.

From the child’s side.

And I know what it really is.

It’s one final act of love.

Written in ink.
Filed in folders.
Wrapped in care.

If you’d like help creating your own “last gift” for the people you love, I’d be honored to help.

No pressure.
No rush.
Just when you’re ready.