The Secret in the Wallet: Grandpa's Neatly Folded Note

Grandpa loved me the most. But he rarely wrote in his life, always saying he wasn't very literate and was afraid of writing poorly and embarrassing himself.

It wasn't until after Grandpa passed away that I sorted through his belongings. In the wallet he'd used for so many years, its leather cracked and peeling, I found a small, tattered, yellowed slip of paper. I carefully unfolded it. On it, in Grandpa's rough hands, with great effort to control the pen, were my name and phone number, written stroke by stroke.

Even though the handwriting was crooked, and he even misspelled my name, looking at that paper, I couldn't stop my tears. It was as if I could see him sitting in his favorite rattan chair under a dim light, squinting, earnestly trying to keep those few words with him.

That was the last and most special gift Grandpa gave me. Now I understand that whether the words are correct or beautiful truly doesn't matter at all.

What matters is that Grandpa wrote it.