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My breath caught.
Inside the garage were boxes. Dozens of them. Each neatly labeled by date and filled with items that told a story of quiet kindness: warm coats in every size, stacks of children’s books, small tools, toys, blankets, notebooks, and everyday essentials. Everything was carefully sorted and prepared, as though waiting for hands that needed them.
I stood there in the stillness, realizing I had stumbled into a part of my husband’s life he had never spoken about. Not because it was something to hide, but because he didn’t believe goodness needed an audience.
Among the stacked boxes, I saw a small notebook with his familiar handwriting. Inside were names, notes, and reminders. Simple lines like “Drop off the coats next week” or “Needs new shoes for the kids.” On the bottom of one page, he had written:
“If something ever happens to me, I hope someone continues this.”
