🔴 THE LAWYER LOOKED AT ME AND SAID, “YOUR FATHER LEFT YOU *WHAT*?”
I choked on my water, the stuffy law office air suddenly thick with the scent of old paper and something vaguely floral. He actually said it, right to my face, no preamble.
“A… a taxidermied… badger?” I stammered, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry bees. It was sitting right there on his desk, this… *thing*. Its glass eyes seemed to follow me, judging.
Dad hated animals, hated the woods. The only thing he ever hunted was a good deal, and the only fur he liked was on a fancy coat. “He specifically requested it be placed in your care,” the lawyer repeated, adjusting his glasses.
But then I saw the tiny envelope taped to its paw, addressed to me in a handwriting I didn’t recognize, and something cold crept up my spine.
👇 Full story continued in the comments…
I carefully peeled the envelope from the badger’s stiff paw. It was brittle with age, the tape yellowed and cracked. My name was printed on it in neat, almost calligraphic letters, certainly not my father’s rushed scrawl. My fingers trembled slightly as I unfolded the single sheet inside. It wasn’t a long letter. Just a few lines, written in the same unfamiliar hand.
*To my dearest [Narrator’s Name],*
*He entrusted this to me years ago, knowing his memory wouldn’t last forever. It holds the key. Look inside. Trust the guardian.*
*With hope,*
*A friend.*
My head spun. “Look inside?” I whispered, more to myself than the lawyer. “Look inside *what*? The badger?”
The lawyer cleared his throat. “He was quite insistent about the badger, yes. And that you should take possession of it immediately.”
“But why?” I pleaded, gesturing at the inanimate creature with its unsettling gaze. “And who wrote this? ‘A friend’? My father didn’t have friends like this, friends who wrote in fancy script and talked about guardians and keys!”
He offered a sympathetic shrug. “Mr. [Father’s Last Name] was a private man. His will simply states the bequest and the specific instructions regarding its placement in your care. There are… no other significant assets mentioned.”
No other assets? My father, the deal-hunter, the man who measured success in square footage and stock dividends, left me a stuffed badger and nothing else? This had to be a joke, a test, a bizarre final message.
I looked at the badger again, its glassy eyes now seeming less judgemental, more… expectant. Trust the guardian. Was the badger itself the guardian? And the key?
Taking a deep breath, I reached out and ran my fingers over the badger’s coarse fur. It felt oddly solid. Then, noticing a faint seam running along its underside, hidden expertly within the taxidermy, I found a small, almost invisible zipper.
With hesitant fingers, I pulled it open. Inside, nestled among a bit of stuffing, wasn’t organs or bones, but a small, intricately carved wooden box. It was old, the wood dark and worn smooth in places. There was no lock, just a tight-fitting lid.
My heart pounded in my chest. The lawyer leaned forward, his professional detachment faltering into curiosity. I carefully lifted the box out of the badger. It was surprisingly heavy.
Holding my breath, I pried open the lid. Inside, resting on faded velvet, wasn’t jewelry or money, but a single, thick stack of old photographs and a thin, leather-bound journal. The photographs were of a younger man, laughing, hiking in deep woods, standing beside… yes, a live badger. It was my father, decades younger, looking happier and more relaxed than I had ever seen him. The journal, written in a spidery, familiar hand – my father’s, but from a long time ago – detailed camping trips, tracking animals, moments of quiet joy spent far from the world of business deals he later inhabited. It spoke of a deep love for nature, a life he had seemingly abandoned entirely. It spoke of ‘my little guardian,’ a badger he had observed and photographed over several seasons.
The “unfamiliar handwriting” on the envelope was the friend mentioned in the letter, someone my father had clearly stayed in touch with, someone who knew this hidden side of him, who had kept this secret for years, perhaps receiving the badger and box from my father when his memory truly began to fail, as the note hinted.
My father hadn’t hated animals or the woods. He had loved them so fiercely that he had to bury that part of himself to become the man he thought he needed to be. The badger wasn’t a cruel joke or a bizarre final act. It was a time capsule, a key to unlock the memory of who he truly was before the world changed him. He hadn’t left me money or property, things I could lose or spend. He had left me his buried heart, protected by his ‘guardian,’ his secret, preserved in time.
Tears stung my eyes, blurring the image of my father’s young, happy face in the photos. The stuffy office no longer smelled of old paper, but faintly, just maybe, of pine and damp earth. I looked at the badger, its glass eyes no longer judgmental, but strangely comforting. My father had left me *that*. And suddenly, I understood. It was everything.