The day after my dad’s funeral, a mysterious package arrived at our door—addressed to me, from him. What I found inside pulled me out of grief and into something far more powerful than goodbye.
I am a 21-year-old college student. For most of my life, I thought I was the “lucky” kind of unlucky. But when I received my dad’s final gift, his words left me certain that I wasn’t unlucky at all. My parents were high school sweethearts, basically children when they discovered they were having me. Sadly, my mom died giving birth to me; the second I entered the world, she left it.
My dad, Jason, was only 17. He had no savings, no family support, and zero clue how to raise a baby. But he never ran. He stayed and raised me alone. He never treated me like a burden, saying I was his reason to stay grounded. He didn’t date or outsource the hard parts; he just loved me. He worked nights at a gas station to be with me during the day and took community college classes part-time.
He was the father who learned to braid my hair from YouTube, kept extra cash in my backpack “just in case,” and showed up to everything even when exhausted. We were close in a way that made people jealous. I’d text him during a panic attack, and he’d reply with a meme and a “breathe, baby girl.” He sent voice memos of him singing badly just to make me laugh. He was the first person I called with news, bad or good. When I came home from college, he’d pretend not to tear up. We had rituals: hot cocoa at the first snow, Die Hard marathons in December, and midnight pancakes when we couldn’t sleep.
I thought I had more time. He started getting tired a few months ago. I noticed him rubbing his chest or breathing heavily after stairs. I begged him to see a doctor. “I’m just getting old, kiddo,” he’d say. “I’ve earned these creaks.” But he wasn’t old. He was 38.
A few days before Christmas, I came home early from campus. I walked into the kitchen to see him slumped on the floor, a cup of tea spilled beside him. His eyes were open but vacant. Just like that, he was gone. A massive heart attack, the doctors said. Everything after blurred together: the hospital, the funeral, distant relatives with casseroles and advice.
The day after the funeral was my birthday. I woke up in our house, where every corner whispered his name. His slippers were by the door; his jacket on the hook. The scent of cinnamon and pine lingered because he’d put up the tree so I’d come home to “cozy vibes.” I sat on the couch, numb and dissociated. I didn’t even cry. I just sat there, blinking, like this was a glitch in the universe.
Then the doorbell rang. I almost didn’t open it. A delivery guy stood there with a small brown package. “Delivery for Rachel?” he asked. When I saw the label, my whole body froze. Written there in block letters was: FROM DAD.
I didn’t understand. I thought my brain was playing a cruel joke. I stared at the box as if it might explode. My fingers shook as I signed for it. I carried it inside like it might vanish if I blinked. I sat on the floor, heart pounding, and tore it open.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. Inside was a single VHS tape. No letter, just my name in his handwriting across the label. I let out a dry laugh that sounded like a sob. Who even owns a VCR anymore?
I tore through the house, searching every drawer and closet. Finally, I remembered the attic—what he called “the museum.” I climbed the ladder, shoving aside boxes of drawings until I found a beat-up VCR tucked behind an old crib. I carried it down like a sacred relic. It took forever to hook up, but eventually, the blue screen popped up. I slid the tape in.
A flicker, a click, and then—there he was. But this was a younger Jason, with messy hair and dark circles. He was sitting on our old plaid couch with baby me in his lap. “Hey, peanut,” he said softly. The lump in my throat was instantaneous.
“I don’t know when you’ll see this,” he said. “But I wanted to give you something permanent. Something the world can’t take away.” He took a breath, trying not to cry. “You won’t remember your mom. But I do. She was brave and fierce. She made me promise to give you a good life—to love you enough for the both of us.” He looked down at me as I grabbed his hoodie string. “I’ve made mistakes, peanut. But loving you? That’s the one thing I’ll never mess up.”
Then he looked straight into the lens. “If you’re watching this, it means time did what time does. I can’t be there right now. But you are the best thing that ever happened to me. You teach me how to be strong without being hard. You give me a reason to wake up.”
Tears rolled down my face. “I hope you know you never have to be perfect for me to love you. When life hurts, it doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong. You’re allowed to fall apart. Just don’t stop coming back to yourself.” He chuckled, rubbing his eyes. “You fall asleep on my chest while I watch reruns. I whisper my fears to the ceiling, hoping I’m getting it right. But I think maybe I’ll do okay. Because if you’re seeing this, it means you’re still here. Still becoming whoever you’re meant to be.”
He reached off-screen, pulled out a tiny party hat, and set it on my baby head. “Happy birthday, sweetheart. Merry Christmas. I love you more than every star and every dumb song we ever danced to. I’m here. Always!”
The screen went blue. I sat in the silence, holding it like glass. I didn’t move for a long time. I walked to the kitchen. My dad’s “World’s Okayest Dad” mug was still in the sink. I washed it and placed it on the counter like a shrine. Then I went back and rewound the tape.
I watched it again. This time, I let myself cry until my chest hurt. Not because I was broken, but because his voice filled the cracks like glue. He was anchoring me. Over the next few days, watching that tape became a ritual. I’d press play before brushing my teeth. His voice became my alarm clock. Sometimes, I whispered back: “I miss you too,” “I’m trying,” “Thank you.”
Something shifted. I wasn’t just watching to grieve; I was watching to remember that I came from someone strong who chose love, over and over. I started organizing the house to make it a place where healing could live. I found an old scrapbook he made with pictures of me and notes like, “Lost her first race. Got back up. That’s my girl!”
I realized grief doesn’t go away; it changes shape. It settles into corners and jumps out when I hear a song he loved. But I’m not scared anymore. Now, I have something to hold on to. That tape. His voice. The way he said, “I’m here. Always!”
On his birthday, I replayed the tape. I didn’t cry. I just watched with a smile. When it ended, I whispered, “Happy birthday, Dad.” In my head, I heard him answer, “Merry Christmas, baby girl. I’m proud of you.” For the first time, I believed it. The people we love don’t vanish. They leave traces—a tape, a label, a blanket that smells like home. And a voice reminding us that even when it hurts, we’re never truly alone.
