My dad always told us he was a mid-level manager at a parts distributor. Every weekday looked the same—same shirt, same lunchbox, same stories about “back pain from the office.” We never questioned it. But at his funeral, a man in uniform approached us, and everything we thought we knew shifted. He revealed that Dad wasn’t a manager at all—he was a maintenance worker who kept an entire facility running. “Your father saved our day more times than I can count,” the man said. “He never wanted credit, but he deserved it.”
As he spoke, it felt like pieces of my dad’s life were falling into place in a way we had never seen before. Dad didn’t hide the truth to deceive us—he hid it so we would never feel embarrassed about his physically demanding job. He wanted us to believe he had an “important” title, not realizing that the work he actually did mattered just as much, if not more. Hearing stories of how he stayed late, solved problems quietly, and helped everyone around him opened my eyes to the depth of his character.
