I Visited My Late Father’s House for the First Time in 13 Years and Found a Bag in the Attic with a Note for Me

It wasn’t real. Just my mind playing tricks. But for a second, I swore I could hear his voice.

And just like that, I wasn’t 32 anymore. I was 17, walking in after school to find Dad in the kitchen, flipping through the newspaper, waiting to ask me how my day was.

“Dad?” I called out instinctively, my voice echoing through the empty house. The silence that followed was deafening.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced my feet forward, wiping away a stray tear. I was here for the documents. Nothing else.

But the house had other plans.

The attic smelled like dust and forgotten years.

I pulled open box after box, sifting through old papers while trying to stay focused.

But it was impossible. Every little thing — Dad’s old flannel jacket, a half-empty can of his favorite mints, and the framed picture of us at my high school graduation — was a punch to the gut.

I cradled the flannel to my chest, breathing in the faint scent that still clung to it.

“You promised you’d be at my college graduation,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. “You promised you’d see me walk across that stage.”

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