I looked straight at Eric and said, “Dad told me why you suddenly got so interested in his things.”
The whole garage went quiet after that.
Eric laughed immediately, but it sounded forced this time. “Here we go.”
I didn’t raise my voice. I just pulled the folded paper out of my back pocket that Dad had made me promise not to show anybody unless Eric started pulling exactly what he’d been pulling.
Dad knew him better than the rest of us did.
“It’s his handwriting,” I said before anybody could interrupt.
Even my aunt leaned closer.
Eric’s face changed the second he saw the paper.
Dad had written it a few months before he died after Eric tried convincing him to “simplify things early” by signing over the truck and garage equipment while he was on pain medication after surgery.
The room got real quiet after that.
I read the part where Dad wrote, “If Eric suddenly starts carrying boxes out after I’m gone, don’t let him guilt everybody into thinking I promised him anything.”
Nobody even looked at Eric anymore. They were all staring at the paper.
Eric kept trying to talk over me, saying Dad was confused sometimes near the end, but that fell apart fast when I read the next line.
“I already caught him taking tools once and putting them in his truck before asking.”
My aunt actually whispered, “Jesus Christ.”
And honestly the worst part for Eric wasn’t even the letter.
It was Dad writing that he’d stayed quiet because he didn’t want another family fight while he was dying.
Eric set the toolbox down after that.
Didn’t slam it. Didn’t argue. Just set it down carefully like suddenly he wasn’t sure what belonged to him anymore.
Then my uncle quietly asked him if the fishing gear in his garage had been “borrowed” too.
Eric didn’t answer him.