Lying in a California hospital as an 88-year-old man, my father said to me, “I think this is it, Son… I have one final wish…”
I leaned in closer, nervously compliant. I thought he might say something like “Tell your mother how much I love her,” or “Tell your brother I’m so proud of him,” or even “You’re the greatest son in the world.” But it was none of those things.
His message was:
“Make sure my obituary is in the Daily Progress. And also, bring my wallet home; there’s $30 in it.”