For eight years, my neighbor drove my father, who was blind, to all his "doctor's appointments" – After my father's funeral, he told me, "He made me promise to tell you where we were really going."

This plan reassured me.

Every Thursday, I paid Ben to drive Dad wherever he needed to go: to the ophthalmologist, the grocery store, the pharmacy, or the restaurant.

Ben told me, "Your father spent years helping people. Let someone return the favor without it feeling strange to him."

This plan reassured me.

I visited him whenever my work allowed, and Dad and I talked every day. He described to me his meals prepared by touch, the audiobooks he hated, and the checkers games that Ben would have lost on purpose.

Dad never pressured me to come more often.

At this point, Ben exclaimed in the background, "He's lying!"

These phone calls have become the best part of my day.

Dad never pressured me to come more often. He preferred to ask me about my children and if I had eaten something decent.

Sometimes I would hear Ben arrive just before Dad ended our call.

Their laughter reduced the distance between us.

Doors opened, keys jingled, and Ben announced: "Your royal carriage awaits you."

Dad would reply, "It smells like stale coffee and questionable choices."

Their laughter reduced the distance between us.

For eight years, I believed that Thursdays were just like any other day.

I kept thinking about our last phone call, which we had left unfinished.

Then, a few days ago, Dad passed away peacefully in his sleep. Ben found him on Friday morning, still wearing the blue sweater my daughter had given him for Christmas the previous year.

The funeral took place in a whirlwind of cooked dishes, handshakes, and people telling me he was proud of me.

I thanked people with a sad smile, but deep down, I kept thinking about our last phone call, which we had left unfinished.

He told me, "Thursday was a productive day."

I had promised to call her the next day.

I asked him what he meant.

Dad laughed and told me not to question an old man.

Then my daughter needed help with her homework, so I promised to call her the next day.

There was no tomorrow.

After the burial, everyone headed towards their car.

I stayed there until Ben approached me, all alone.

I stood by the grave, staring at the freshly turned earth, wondering how I was going to be able to move on.

A light rain began to fall.

I stayed there until Ben approached me, all alone.

He was wearing the same brown coat he had worn to my mother's funeral.

He stopped next to me and handed me a sealed envelope, on which my name was scrawled in Dad's handwriting.

Her hands were trembling.

I reached out to take it, but Ben held it firmly.

Her hands were trembling.

Ben had already repaired roofs during storms, and he had gone outside in his pajamas when he heard a noise between our houses. I had never seen him so upset.

He looked at me.

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