The List of Unfinished Business: A Peaceful Goodbye

The Inventory of Unspoken Words

I found out on a random Tuesday. The doctor didn’t even look up as he read the results.

“It’s best if you start making preparations,” he said quietly, as if confessing a forbidden secret.

I thought it was odd: Prepare for what?
You can’t plan for death, I thought. It simply arrives.

But as I left the hospital, with that folded piece of paper in my pocket and the city just as always—neither grayer nor brighter—I realized that maybe what I needed to plan wasn’t my death, but my farewell.

That night, sitting at the table, I looked at the wall clock my father hung up when he bought this apartment. Nearly sixty years have passed since then.

And although the clock kept ticking, I left many things unfinished.
Broken relationships. Forgotten promises. Words I never said, out of fear or pride.

I thought of Emily, my daughter, and how many times I spoke to her about order, about not putting off what matters. I smiled. We rarely listen to ourselves.

I took out a piece of paper and began to write:

“Things to Take Care of Before I Go.”

The List Begins

That first night, the list was short.
Just five names and three forgotten promises.

But the next day, while making coffee and leafing through the newspaper without reading it, more memories started to come up.
Small wounds. Words left unsaid. Moral debts.

It’s surprising how easy it is to let days pass without closing chapters, as if time alone could fix everything.

But time only piles things up.
It’s up to us to empty the drawer.

That’s when I remembered an ad: a service to leave messages, letters, videos, instructions behind.

“ileave.es: Leave your story, close your circles, give peace.”

It sounded like an impossible promise, but the idea of sorting out my unfinished business finally felt real.

I opened my laptop, signed up on ileave, and started writing.
At first, the words came out awkward, as if I were learning to walk again.

But soon, the list became more than just a list.
It was an X-ray of my life, my failures, and my loves.
Everything I needed to let go of before leaving.

Unfinished Business With a Name

Michael, the Estranged Brother

Michael is my younger brother. As kids, we were inseparable.
After our mother died, we drifted apart.
A stupid argument, an unresolved inheritance. Suddenly, two strangers.

For years, I imagined he would call me one day to make peace.
He never did, and neither did I.
Pride is heavier than love when you’re hurt.

With ileave, I wrote him a message:

“Michael, if you’re reading this, I’m already gone. But I want to ask your forgiveness. Not for what happened—we both share blame—but for letting so many years go by without reaching out. I miss you. I hope you can let go of this burden, brother. I hope life becomes lighter for you.”

I don’t know if he’ll ever read it, but just writing it was a relief.

Emily, the Daughter Who Never Knew Everything

I had Emily late in life, when I was no longer young or optimistic.
I blame myself for many things: being distant, demanding, expecting more of her than I did of myself.

With ileave, I recorded videos for her to be sent later.

The first one was the hardest:

“I know that by the time you see this, you’ll have already grieved me. I’m not going to tell you not to cry. But I do want to ask you, after the tears, to let the light back into your home. Forgive me for all my silences, for all the times I wasn’t there for you. If I hope for anything with this message, it’s that you don’t stay trapped in what I didn’t give you. I want you to live, Emily, to live without fear of letting go of the past.”

For days I rehearsed lines, cried in front of the camera, recorded and re-recorded.
Sometimes my voice trembled, but afterwards I felt lighter.
Each word took a weight off my chest.

I also told her secrets I never dared say:
How I met her mother.
Why I kept that blue clock in the closet.
How I felt the night she was born.

I recorded her a voice note with the recipe for her favorite rice dish.
And another for when she has doubts about love.

I want her to feel my voice beside her when she feels most alone.

Sarah, the Interrupted Love

Sarah was the love of my youth.
We parted out of cowardice, not daring to defy the world.
I never forgot her, even though I pretended I did.

I searched for her online, found her, and wrote:

“I don’t know if you remember me. I always remember you. I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for leaving without saying goodbye. Life gave me a lot, but I didn’t know how to fight for what I wanted most. If you ever think of me, I hope it’s with tenderness, not resentment.”

She replied a few days later:

“Thank you. I didn’t know I needed to hear this, but I did. Take care.”

And with that message, an old wound quietly healed.

The Clock and the Family Story

There’s an old clock hanging in the kitchen.
Ugly, square, the varnish chipped at the corners.

When Emily was a child, she’d ask why we kept it.
I’d always say, “It’s special.”

Now I decided to tell her the truth through ileave:

“That clock was your grandfather’s first gift to your grandmother. One day it stopped working, and I lied—I said it was beyond repair. In reality, I hid it because I was afraid time would move on without them. You’ll find it in the blue box in the closet. I don’t know if it still works, but now it’s yours. Do what you want with it, but please, don’t let fear keep you from moving forward.”

Lisa, the Ex-wife, and Paul, the Loyal Friend

I owed Lisa an apology.
Our separation was a cold war, full of unspoken resentments.

With ileave, I sent her a letter:

“Lisa, I never knew how to say sorry. I hope these words help. Thank you for everything we shared, even the difficult years. I truly hope you’re happy.”

She replied with a short email:

“Thank you. I needed to hear that. Take care.”

And finally, I felt we could let go of the rope.
Stop fighting over a past that no longer belonged to us.

I simply thanked Paul.
I recorded a message for him to hear after I was gone:

“Thank you for always being there, even when you didn’t know what to say. If everyone had a friend like you, the world would be a less lonely place.”

Mr. Taylor and the Small Promises

I looked for the old book from Mr. Taylor, a teacher who inspired me more than he ever knew.
I took it back to the library and left a note inside:

“This book meant a lot to me. I hope it finds someone who values it just as much.”

On my way home, I felt lighter.
Like someone finally taking a stone out of their shoe after years of not noticing the pain.

The Invisible Unfinished Business

There were other wounds, subtler ones:
Fears.
Resentments.
Things I never put into words.

I decided to leave a digital journal on ileave for Emily to receive.

In it, I was honest about my mistakes, my doubts, the days when life felt heavy, and the days when everything made sense.

I didn’t want her to think I’d been a perfect father.
Just a man who did what he could—sometimes well, sometimes not.

I told her about my own parents.
About my childhood.
About the night I felt everything was ending, and how I found beauty in everyday things: the smell of bread, sunlight coming through the window, laughter shared, even if rarely.

With ileave, I recorded small messages:
An “I love you” on a February Tuesday.
A funny story for what might one day be her wedding anniversary.

I imagined her surprise, her laughter or her tears, and felt that, in some way, I could keep her company.

The Conflict of Closure

Not all unfinished business had a happy ending.
Some people never replied.
Others answered coldly.
Some wounds never healed.

Sometimes I wondered: Is it worth stirring up the past?
Wouldn’t it be better to leave everything unsaid and just go?

But I discovered that trying to close wounds—even from just one side—is already an act of love and courage.

The process was long.
Some nights nostalgia overwhelmed me; other times I felt grateful for the chance to put things in order.

On the hardest nights, I’d reread what I’d scheduled on ileave.
I reminded myself: what matters isn’t leaving with no loose ends, but having tried to heal what could be healed.

Climax: The Last Wound

There remained the greatest fear: leaving Emily alone.
No message or video could fill the void of a real absence.

For days I struggled to find the perfect phrase. The impossible comfort.

In the end, I left her this:

“If you’re reading this, I’m no longer a presence, but I am still a root. Living means learning to say goodbye without fear. Cry as much as you need, but don’t forget to laugh afterwards. That’s what I want you to remember about me. That life, even when it hurts, is also generous. Allow yourself to move on—not because you forget me, but because you carry me with you.”

The last night before going to the hospital, I walked around the house, touching the objects: the clock, the photos, the books.
I stopped in front of the hallway mirror.

I thought:
Death is a lot like leaving a house tidy before going on a trip.
You can’t take everything with you, but you can make sure there’s no dust left under the rug.

Epilogue: Closing, Letting Go, Moving Forward

With my unfinished business finally in order, I felt at peace.

I looked around my home.
The scheduled messages on ileave.
The letters ready.
The clock in the blue box in the closet.

I knew that, even though not all chapters had a happy ending, the story had been told.

I closed the door to the past, turned out the light, and—for the first time in years—slept with no weight on my chest.

A farewell doesn’t erase pain, but it can leave fewer shadows.

An Invitation to Reflect

It’s never too late to make your own list of unfinished business.
Maybe, by closing one wound, you create space for peace.

Do it today. Leave fewer shadows, and a little more light.

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