It all started after our parents died. My brother, David, and I inherited some property, including two houses — the new two-story house where our parents lived during their last years and the old, run-down house where we grew up. Our dad was a sentimental man, and despite our attempts to convince him to sell the old place, he always refused, hoping that one day we would renovate it and raise our families there, just like he did.

When he died, David insisted we sell the old house and split the money. I couldn’t do it. It was my dad’s greatest wish to save the place, so I chose to keep the old house while David, thinking I was foolish, took the new one.

As my wife and I started renovating, it dawned on me how much work and time it would take to make the place livable. I almost regretted my decision until I ripped off the wallpaper in my dad’s room.
As soon as I saw the message, I ran out of the house. Written on the wall in my dad’s familiar handwriting was a note:
*To my beloved children,*