\My grandpa was legendary for one thing: never spending a cent unless he absolutely had to. He reused foil. Washed paper towels. Turned lights off behind guests. If something could be saved, he saved it. If it could be reused, he reused it twice.

So when he passed away and I inherited a single envelope, I wasn’t surprised.

Inside was a $100 coupon.

Not cash. Not a check. A coupon.

I laughed. Then I felt embarrassed for even opening it. I considered throwing it away immediately. It felt like a joke—one last reminder of how tight he was.

But something stopped me.

I decided to use it.

At the store, I handed it to the cashier without much thought. She looked at it. Froze. Then called her manager. People behind me started watching.

“This isn’t possible,” the cashier finally said. “Where did you get this?”

I swallowed. “It was my grandpa’s.”

Her face changed.

She explained that the coupon was part of a very limited promotion from decades ago, issued before the company even digitized their system. Almost all of them had expired, been lost, or destroyed. This one was still valid—because my grandpa had followed every rule to the letter. Stored it properly. Never bent it. Never used it.

The manager honored it.

But that wasn’t the moment that changed me.

What changed me was what the cashier said next, quietly, almost to herself:

“Whoever held onto this… really understood value.”

I walked out with my purchase, but more importantly, with a realization I’d missed my whole life.

My grandpa wasn’t stingy.

He was intentional.

He didn’t save money because he loved hoarding. He saved because he believed small things mattered. That patience mattered. That waste mattered. That discipline compounded over time.

That $100 coupon wasn’t about the money.

It was a lesson.

And suddenly, all the foil, the lights, the habits—it all made sense.

That day didn’t make me richer.

It made me wiser.

And that ended up being worth far more than a hundred dollars.