"I love you, son."
His voice trembled.
"I wish I'd been a better father. I wish we'd had more time. But most of all, I wish I'd told you how proud I am of you."
A tear rolled down his cheek.
"I love you, son. I always have."
He reached toward the camera.
I sat there, unable to move.
"Goodbye, buddy."
The screen went black.
I sat there, unable to move.
Then I bent forward and cried, harder than I had at the funeral.
Eventually, I reached beneath the mixing desk and pulled open the drawer.
I opened one.
Inside was a wooden box filled with neatly arranged envelopes.
Each bore a month and year.
I opened one.
Two hundred-dollar bills and a fifty.
Another envelope contained the same amount.
Fifteen thousand dollars.
There were sixty altogether.
Every $250 payment I'd made over the past five years.
Fifteen thousand dollars.
On top lay a note in Dad's handwriting.