Three years later, Frede and Keaton walked across the stage at State University, diplomas in hand, ready to teach.
After the ceremony, Frede looked up at the sky. “Wish he could see this.”
Keaton smiled through damp eyes. “He sees.”
They became the kind of teachers who noticed every kid, who remembered that real wealth is measured in the lives you lift.
And whenever they drove past that overgrown trailer, they slowed down, just for a moment, to remember the man who looked poor but owned the richest heart they’d ever known.
Bernard’s lesson lived in every classroom they entered, every hand they steadied, every quiet act of kindness they passed on.
Because that’s what great men do.
