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."

I secured the envelope.

"What do you want?" he finally asked.

"Don't defend yourself. Tell her why she matters to you."

Ben said that Dad repeated it so often that he sometimes heard the phrase echoing in his brain.

I secured the envelope.

Ben said it contained letters he had written but never mailed.

The last letter contained no corrections.

Ben had read them aloud, and Dad had told him which passages were rubbish, which needed to be slightly edited, and which revealed his true feelings.

The last letter contained no corrections.

Dad told Ben she was ready.

Ben still couldn't send it.

I pushed the envelope back.

"Your father gave me an instruction," he said. "After his death, you were to make sure I finished what we started."

Anger overwhelmed me.

I had buried my father an hour earlier, and Ben was already giving me a task to complete for another family.

I pushed the envelope back.

"No. I can't do that for you today."

Ben nodded, looking understanding.

Ben left me free every Thursday without ever making me feel helpless.

"There's another word," he told me. "For you."

I opened the envelope, despite my hesitation. How could I not have heard from my father one last time?

His letter was short, typed, except for his signature.

My boy,

Ben left me free every Thursday without ever making me feel helpless.

Helping Ben was my way of fully restoring his dignity.

He described the curbs, the doors, the food, and the faces, just so I would know what was going on. He took me to my appointments. He waited while I answered the doctors' questions myself. He helped me without making me feel belittled.

Helping Ben was my way of fully restoring his dignity. And in a way, he was helping you too.

You might think I was hiding something from you. And I was.

I told Ben I would go with him.

I was hiding how useful I still felt.

I reread that sentence twice.

I read it a third time, and I realized how much Ben had meant to my father. With a sigh, I looked at Ben.

"Okay. For my father's sake, and for all the love you've given my family, I'll help you. But I won't be your replacement. I'll just be there, like you were there for Dad."

We left the next morning.

Ben agreed.

We left the next morning.

Claire lived three hours away by car.

Ben rehearsed before we got on the highway. Each version began with apologies and ended with proof that he had been misunderstood.

"You enjoy disciplining me as much as your father does."

I kept saying, "That part is just an excuse."

On the fourth attempt, Ben gripped the steering wheel.

"You enjoy disciplining me as much as your father does."

"We both like being right."

Ben sniffed.

Ben thought about throwing the letter into a river.

"So today would have been like Christmas for him."

I laughed in spite of myself.

We stopped once for a coffee, and Ben thought about throwing the letter into a river.

I put it in the glove compartment.

"You don't have the legal right to access my mail, you know," Ben pointed out.

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