After the funeral, my mom asked if I could clear out his garage because she couldn’t face it herself.
I expected to find greasy tools and motorcycle parts.
Instead, under his workbench, there was a wooden box covered in dust.
Inside were twenty-six envelopes.
One for every year of my life.
Each envelope had the same thing written on it.
My birthday.
When I opened the first envelope, dated June 14, 1998—my first birthday—I found a faded pharmacy receipt from El Paso, Texas.
Total: $847.32.
Attached to it was a short note in my father’s handwriting.
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