Death is always a surprise. No one expects it.

We are never ready. It is never the right time. By the time it comes, we will not have done all the things we wanted to. The end always comes as a surprise, and it’s a tearful moment for widows and a bore for the children who don’t yet understand what a funeral truly is. Thank God for that.

I heard this story and it made me cry; and then it inspired me.

When my father passed. His death was even more unexpected. He was gone at age 27—the same age that claimed the lives of famous musicians, though my father was neither famous nor a musician. He was simply a man whose life was stolen by cancer. He left before he could see the next year, before our plans for fishing trips and adventures could be fulfilled. I was eight and a half—old enough to miss him for a lifetime. Had he died earlier, perhaps I wouldn’t have had memories of him, wouldn’t have felt the pain. But I had a father, and that is something worth mourning.

My father was firm and fun. He cracked jokes before grounding me so I wouldn’t feel too bad. He kissed my forehead before bed, a habit I later passed to my own children. He forced me to support his football team and explained things better than my mother. A father like that is someone to be missed.

He never told me he was going to die. Even when he lay in a hospital bed with tubes covering his body, he made plans for the next year as if he would be there. He kept hope alive, and he kept me laughing. He protected me from the truth until the very end. And then, suddenly, that next year never came.

I learned about his passing from a doctor who had long since lost the art of softening the blow. My mother cried. I screamed in anger. I felt betrayed.

And then, in the middle of my grief, my father returned to me.

A nurse arrived with a shoebox under her arm. Inside were letters, each in an envelope labeled with moments yet to come. The first letter, the only one outside the box, was addressed simply: WHEN I’M GONE.

Son,

If you’re reading this, I’m dead. I’m sorry. I knew this was coming, but I didn’t want you to cry. I figured a man about to die has the right to be a little selfish.

Well, I still have a lot to teach you, kid. You don’t know crap about anything yet. So I wrote these letters for you. You must not open them before the right moment, OK? That’s our deal.

I love you. Take care of your mom. You’re the man of the house now.

Love, Dad.

P.S. I didn’t write letters for your mom. She got my car.

Through his words, my father made me laugh again. And cry. And hold onto something more valuable than gold—his wisdom, frozen in time, waiting for the moments I needed it most.

Years passed. I forgot about the box. Life carried on. Then one day, in the middle of a bitter argument with my mother, I remembered it. Among the letters, I found one labeled WHEN YOU HAVE THE WORST FIGHT EVER WITH YOUR MOM.

Now apologize to her.

I don’t know who’s right, but I know your mother. A humble apology is the best way forward.

She went through natural birth because someone told her it was best for you. Have you ever seen a woman give birth? Do you need a bigger proof of love than that?

Apologize. She’ll forgive you.

Love, Dad.

His words hit me like a slap—a far softer one than my mother’s, though. I rushed to her room, tears in my eyes, and hugged her. We sat in silence, reminiscing about my father, his eccentricities, his terrible handwriting. He was there with us, in a way. His words had brought us together.

Over the years, I opened letter after letter at just the right time: WHEN YOU LOSE YOUR VIRGINITY, WHEN YOU GET MARRIED, WHEN YOU BECOME A FATHER. His words guided me through each milestone, each challenge, each lesson I wasn’t ready to face alone.

Then, finally, came the moment I dreaded. The last letter. WHEN YOUR TIME COMES.

I lay in a hospital bed, fingers tracing the faded ink. My own time was near. I took a deep breath and opened the envelope.

Hello, son. I hope you’re an old man now.

This letter was the easiest to write, and the first I wrote. I set myself free from the pain of losing you by writing it. It turns out, your mind becomes clearer when you’re this close to the end.

In my last days, I thought about my life. It was brief but happy. I was your father, and I loved your mother. What more could I ask for? That gave me peace. Now you do the same.

My advice: you don’t have to be afraid.

P.S. I miss you.

We do not control how long we are here. But we do control what we leave behind.

This is why I am helping a friend build Reflekta.ai … a way to preserve the wisdom, humor, and presence of those we love, so that even after they are gone, they can still guide us. Imagine opening a letter from your father, mother, or best friend, hearing their voice, feeling their presence, knowing that even in their absence, they are still with you.

Mind over matter, as my Mom would say… Ah see, she’s still here, too.