THE SIGNATURE

My father was a man of principle. A man who walked through life with values, discipline, and unshakable integrity. Education, honesty, respect, and personal responsibility were non-negotiable for him. He believed that a person grows only through knowledge, hard work, and decency. Yet, even though he held clear expectations for us, he gave us the greatest freedom a parent can give a child: the freedom to choose our own path—without guilt or obligations toward our parents.

He was not an authoritarian father. He didn’t want to be called Baba or Papa but insisted we call him by his first name—Ali. For him, respect was never about titles, but about trust. And because our relationship was more like that of friends, I eventually came up with my own nicknames for him, derived from his real name, the way friends do. Sometimes he was “Like,” when he embodied the old, wise man. Sometimes he was “Lio,” when he was my cool, same-age buddy—depending on the moment. He never commented on it, simply let it be, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He was a company doctor. In his bag, or in the medicine cabinet at home, there were medical certificate forms for employees—already stamped, but without the details filled in. I was twelve or thirteen at the time, and let’s just say I was a creative child with a keen sense for possibilities. One day I realized that these forms were essentially “half-certificates”—they only needed a signature and a diagnosis. And who was I to let such an opportunity go to waste? I grabbed a few of the forms, picked up a pen and paper, and began practicing my father’s signature. I perfected it so well that I almost convinced myself I was a doctor.

But of course, I didn’t just want it to look convincing—I also needed the knowledge. So I started asking my father innocent-sounding questions about illnesses: “Lio, how do you write a cold in Latin? And stomach flu? And fever?” He explained patiently, never suspecting that his son was preparing for a second career as the unofficial school doctor.

From then on, I began issuing medical notes for my school friends. Did they want a day off here or there? No problem! A small cold with Rhinopharyngitis acuta? You’re welcome. Stomach trouble with Gastroenteritis infectiosa? Here’s your certificate. I felt like a genius—a twelve-year-old doctor without medical school!

And the best part? Nobody ever found out. My father had no idea. He went on with his life, never knowing that his son was secretly working as “Dr. Junior.” I carried this secret for years—until the day I finally told him.

In 1994, I left Albania as a refugee and came to Germany. I had nothing—no home, no security, no certainty that I would even be allowed to stay. In a new world where people had houses, wealth, and safety, I realized that apart from my father’s values, I had inherited nothing. No money, no possessions—only what he had taught me. But I did have his signature.

I wanted this signature, which I had once forged as a child, to no longer be a tool of deception but a symbol of my success, my honesty, and my respect for my father. So I visited him. I took a sheet of paper, wrote down my version of his signature, and slid it over to him. “Sign here,” I said. He did, without thinking much of it. Then I held both papers up to his face.

“So, Like, tell me—which one is yours?”

He studied the two signatures. First he frowned, then he held them against the light, then flipped them over. Finally, he said: “This can’t be. They look identical!”

I grinned and told him the whole story about my forged medical notes back in school. When he realized what I had been doing behind his back all those years, he broke into roaring laughter.

Then I grew serious. “As compensation, Lio, I promise you this: I’ll make sure this signature becomes world-famous.”

At the end of January 2016, I visited him again. By then I had built a successful café, a barista school, and had become known worldwide, traveling the globe and signing autographs with his signature. I asked him whether I had fulfilled my promise.

He looked at me and said: “Yes, you kept your promise, and I’m proud of you. But it’s never too late for a diploma. Do you know there are people who go to university at 80—or even later?”

A month later, he passed away.

Today, on March 1st, 2025, the anniversary of my father’s death, I officially open my roastery. I had his signature painted on the wall with coffee—not as decoration, but as a symbol of everything that shaped me. His name now stands where my success truly began.

My father left me nothing material. No house, no money, no inheritance. But he taught me the most important lesson: his name, his word, his signature carried weight—not because it was written on paper, but because it stood for his values. Today, that signature is a mark of respect, honesty, discipline, and freedom. And perhaps that makes it more valuable than any material inheritance could ever be.