I was just 17 when my grandpa passed away. The day he left us is still etched vividly in my memory. I recall my mom gathering my sisters and me, her serious expression hinting at the news she was about to break. It was a seemingly ordinary day after school, but something felt different.

My grandpa was an extraordinary man. At 82 years old, he was always full of energy. His unwavering love for vintage cars was contagious and he later sparked in me a deep passion for all things powered by an engine. He owned a remarkable car that he held dear to his heart. Every weekend, my mom would drop me off at his place so that we could work on it together. Those weekends were enchanting, filled with laughter and moments of bonding over our shared love for cars.

Even the mishaps that occurred during our tinkering sessions – like when I accidentally knocked over the oil can or scratched the pristine red paint on his Chevy Bel Air – were part of the fun. What I adored the most was that my grandpa always filled the ashtray with candy. He never smoked and encouraged me to indulge my sweet tooth instead.

While I relished every moment spent with my grandpa, my sisters preferred to hang out with our two cousins. And that was perfectly fine by me. Our weekends together forged some of the most treasured memories of my life.

When my mom finally gathered us to share the news of my grandpa’s passing, my heart shattered into a thousand pieces. He wasn’t just my grandpa; he was my confidant and best friend. Devastation overwhelmed me, causing me to retreat to my room for the rest of the day. The next morning, as I made my way down to the kitchen in my pajamas, I felt a painful sense of isolation. It seemed like everyone around me was giving me the cold shoulder.

Confused and hurt, I approached my mom to find out what was wrong. She then explained that my sisters were envious because my grandpa had left his beloved Chevy to me. I couldn’t believe it. His cherished car was now mine. But my mom quickly added that I wouldn’t inherit it. It felt as though I had been punched in the gut.

The following weeks were filled with pleading and begging, but my mother remained resolute. The car had already been sold, she said. It had been bought by someone for a staggering $70,000. I watched with a heavy heart as it drove away, disappointment washing over me.

Determined to reclaim my grandpa’s Chevy, I made it my mission to get my driver’s license and started working part-time to save money. I pursued my education, graduated at the top of my class, and landed a prestigious job as an engineer. At the age of 27, the promise I made to myself years ago was about to be fulfilled.

I managed to track down the person who had purchased the car and struck a deal with him. For $80,000, I became the proud owner of my grandpa’s beloved Chevy. It was worth every penny. With an ear-to-ear grin, I hopped into the car and drove it back home. In that moment, the outside world ceased to exist. The Chevy was all that mattered.

On my way home, I couldn’t resist opening the ashtray, just as my grandpa used to do. To my utter surprise, there was an envelope hidden inside. It bore my name in my grandpa’s unmistakable handwriting. With trembling hands, I ripped it open.

Inside the envelope, I discovered a heartfelt letter. My grandpa had poured his love into that car, just as he had lavished his love on me. The letter revealed a shocking truth about my family, but it didn’t matter. What truly mattered was that my grandpa loved me unconditionally. And as a final surprise, nestled within the envelope was a gem. It was his way of saying that he had never doubted my ability to discover the candy.

Filled with overwhelming happiness and gratitude, I parked the car at my home, knowing that I had reclaimed something truly special. My love for vintage cars, for candy, and above all, for my grandpa would forever be intertwined.