At my wedding, my grandfather handed me an old savings book. My father snatched it from my hands, saying, “That bank closed in the 80s. It’s lost.” My grandfather died shortly after. I went to the bank anyway. The manager looked through the files, glanced up at me, and said, “Sir, perhaps you should sit down…”

I kept the savings book. I put it in my bedside table drawer, under my watch and spare keys, and left it there. I told myself I’d go to the bank one day, just to see, just to be sure. But the weeks turned into months, the months into years, and doubt crept in insidiously, as always. What if my father was right? What if the account was closed? What if there really was nothing there, and going to the bank would only confirm what everyone already thought: that Grandpa Chester was a kind old man without a penny to his name? I couldn’t bear that possibility, so I left the book in the drawer and pretended it didn’t exist.

Grandfather Chester passed away one Tuesday morning in February. He died peacefully in his sleep, in the same bed where he had slept beside my grandmother for 56 years. The neighbor found him when she came to check on him, as he hadn’t answered. I was the one who identified the body. I was the one who called the funeral home. I was the one who sat in that little house, steeped in 50 years of a simple life, mourning the last good man in my family.

The funeral was intimate: a few neighbors, some old colleagues from the factory, people who really knew Chester and cared about him. My father came, but complained about the cheap coffin. My mother came, but left early for a hair appointment. Preston came, but spent most of the ceremony on his phone. Bridget came, but she brought her own hand sanitizer and refused to sit in the pews.

I delivered the eulogy because no one else would have.

“My grandfather Chester wasn’t rich,” I said, standing at the podium, facing the sparse audience. “He didn’t have a big house or a luxury car. He didn’t travel the world or build a business empire. By all the standards society uses for success, he had nothing. But by the standards that really matter, he had everything. He had a wife who loved him for 56 years. His home was always warm and welcoming. His laughter was infectious. His patience was boundless. He possessed a wisdom he generously shared with anyone who asked. He taught me that it’s the simple things that count. A glass of cool lemonade on a hot day. A Sunday afternoon spent chatting and doing nothing else. A sincere handshake. A promise kept. I will miss him every day until the end of my days. And I will strive every day to be like him. Not rich in money, but rich in what truly matters.”

My father looked at his watch during my eulogy. My mother whispered something to Bridget. Preston wasn’t even pretending to listen. But Naomi was crying, and four-year-old Theo, who didn’t really understand what was happening, held my hand when I sat back down and said:

“That was good, Dad.”

That was enough.

The reading of the will took place two days later, in a lawyer’s office in Cleveland. My father was there, of course, ready to receive the meager inheritance left by Chester. Preston and Bridget were there too, more out of obligation than hope. I was there because I had no choice.

The lawyer, an old man named Howard who had known Chester for decades, read the will in a calm and respectful voice.

“To my son Gordon, I bequeath my house located at 4412 Elmwood Drive, which he may sell or keep as he sees fit.”

My father nodded, satisfied. The house was maybe worth $95,000. Not much, but it was something.

“To my grandchildren Preston and Bridget, I bequeath my savings account at the Ohio National Bank, to be divided equally between them. The current balance is approximately $28,000.”

Preston and Bridget exchanged a disappointed look. Fourteen thousand dollars each, it wasn’t worth the trip.

“To my grandson, Declan, I bequeath my 1987 Ford pickup truck and my toolbox.”

My father burst out laughing.

“A thirty-seven-year-old truck and a rusty toolbox. That seems plausible to me.”

“The truck and toolbox are already in Declan’s possession,” Howard continued, ignoring my father. “Chester gave them to him last year.”

“So Declan won’t get anything?” asked Bridget, barely concealing her smile.

“The will has been fully executed. The estate is closed.”

My father stood up, dusting off his trousers, as if this whole affair had soiled him.

“Well, it was a waste of time. At least we got the house.”