The driver carried the huge box with difficulty and grinned as he set it down:
— Careful. This thing weighs a ton.
I signed automatically, still not fully understanding what was happening. There was no company name on the label — just a return address three states away and a single letter: G.
I recognized the handwriting instantly, and my heart began to pound as if it might burst out of my chest.
I dragged the box inside, arguing with myself about what could be inside, and only after a few minutes did I dare cut the tape.
Inside was a thick blanket, tightly wrapped around something heavy. When I pulled it back, a familiar smell washed over me — oil, metal polish, degreaser.
I knew what it was even before I saw it.
Memories of Saturday mornings in the garage came flooding back: Grace beside me, a smear of grease on her cheek, her serious voice pointing out the spots I had missed. I tore away the fabric — and froze.
It was an engine block.
A V8 from a 1967 Mustang that we had once hauled home from a junkyard. I recognized the casting number, the uneven weld I had botched years ago.
Only now the engine was flawless — restored, polished, and painted in exactly the color I loved.
I sank to the floor, touching the cold metal, and understood: Grace hadn’t forgotten me. For five years, she had been finishing what we started together.
Through my tears, I noticed an envelope hidden inside one of the cylinders. Inside was a letter. She called me Dad, apologized, and wrote that she couldn’t forgive me without first accepting that her mother was truly gone.
At the end was a note: “Check the bottom of the box.”
There I found a photo of Grace with her newborn son, a plane ticket, and a note:
“Come meet your grandson. He needs a grandfather who can teach him how to hold a wrench.”
I looked out the window at the “For Sale” sign and called the realtor.
— Take it down, — I said. — The house stays. I need a garage.
When I hung up, the house no longer felt empty. It was waiting.
— I’m coming, — I whispered. — And this time, forever.
I needed to pack.
I was going to my daughter and my grandson — and nothing could stop me now.