My nickname is Griffo. Not everyone knows me by that name. It is a nickname reserved for my immediate family and one or two close friends who are “in the know”. And, well, now I suppose you know too. But the story that sits behind it is worth sharing.

A battered toy car

I keep a battered old toy car on my desk. It’s small, a little worn, its blue paint chipped and its cream interior dulled by decades of handling. To anyone else, it might look like junk — the sort of forgotten toy you’d expect to find in the bottom of a box at a garage sale. But to me, it is priceless.

It’s an Iso Grifo, given to me when I was only a baby.

The story goes like this: while Mum was in hospital giving birth to me, my dad had the unenviable job of looking after my three elder brothers. Perhaps in a moment of inspiration, or simply out of desperation, he decided the best way to keep them occupied was to buy each of them a toy car. My brother Richard, bless him, wouldn’t let Dad leave me out. He insisted that Dad buy one for me too. And so he did, a Matchbox toy car Iso Grifo.

Apparently, even as a baby, I clutched that little car and wouldn’t let it go. Somehow, through all the years of moves and mishaps, it stayed with me. Now, decades later, it sits on my desk even as I type this article. It is not pristine. It is not rare. Yet it is my most treasured possession.

Years ago, my own kids discovered the story and decided to buy me a new version of the same Iso Grifo. That one sits beside the original — shiny and perfect, almost like a guardian angel for its battered older brother. Together, they are constant reminders of family, memory, and love.

Carry the load

This toy car is not, by any stretch, my most valuable possession. But it is the most meaningful. Why? Because it carries with it a story. A story about my dad trying to care for his children. A story about my brother Richard’s insistence that I should be included. A story about continuity, love, and belonging.

Objects like this take on lives of their own. They become vessels, holding not just memories but relationships. They embody connections across time, to the people who gave them, to the moments they mark, and to the emotions they stir in us.

We might think our treasures will be the big things, the house, the investments, the artworks. But often it is the smallest, most ordinary objects that become the most sacred. A letter. A ring. A recipe written in a parent’s handwriting. A book inscribed with a friend’s note. A child’s drawing that has somehow survived the years.

The truth is, what makes these things powerful is not their material value but their relational value. They tether us to the people and the moments that shaped us.

Heir today

Not long ago, I encountered a painting that crystallised these thoughts: The Heirs by Jean Eugene Bulaud. The title naturally makes us think about inheritance in the financial sense — wealth, estates, possessions. The painting consists of four men and a woman sat at a small table. In the foreground we find one man staring into an open safe. We cannot see the contents inside. 

There are hints and symbols. A rolled up carpet on the floor. Some empty picture frames. There is no hint to the relationship between these people. Their faces are inscrutable.

Standing before the painting prompted me to reflect on things I value most, and what inheritance I shall leave behind when my time comes. I thought of my Iso Grifo. Technically, it is a hand-me-down, but not in the usual sense. It was not passed down from my parents or grandparents; it was passed forward by a brother’s insistence. It became a seed of identity.

In that way, my toy car is part of my inheritance. It carries the love of my family, the imagination of childhood, and the story of how we looked after one another. And in turn, it has become part of what I will leave behind. My kids understand the car’s meaning. They saw it clearly enough to buy me a replacement. They’ve heard the story enough to know it is not really about a toy at all — it is about what we treasure, why we treasure it, and how love is encoded in even the smallest things.

Finding meaning in the material

It is fashionable to say that “things don’t matter,” that what matters are experiences, not possessions. There is truth in that. But sometimes objects are the carriers of experience. They are the containers that hold our stories. 

The Iso Grifo is not just a toy car. It is my father, exhausted but thoughtful, trying to manage three children while Mum recovered. It is my brother Richard’s voice insisting that his baby brother not be forgotten. It is my own tiny hands clutching something that made me feel included, seen, and loved.

Objects like this allow us to return to those moments. They collapse time. They give us anchors in the chaos of life, reminding us who we are and where we come from. They remind us, too, that we are part of a chain. We are recipients of love, carriers of memory, and, one day, givers of legacy.

What we will leave

Thinking about The Heirs and looking at my Iso Grifo, I find myself wondering: what will my children treasure most when I am gone? It will probably not be the things I imagine. Not the carefully chosen gifts, nor the larger purchases. More likely, it will be something ordinary that became extraordinary because of the story attached to it.

Perhaps it will be a note, or a photograph, or even this very toy car. Likely it will be something I cannot predict. But what I do know is that what they will hold onto will be infused with love, memory, and story.

This realisation changes how I think about legacy. It is not primarily about wealth, or achievements, or status. It is about the stories we weave into the fabric of ordinary life. It is about the ways we make people feel seen, included, and loved.

Connection and joy

We often underestimate the power of objects to connect us. They are not just things. They are symbols. They are memory banks. They are bridges between generations.

And perhaps most importantly, they help us make meaning. In a world that often feels fragmented and rushed, to hold something that anchors you in story is to remember what matters most: love, belonging, connection, legacy.

That which persists

My Iso Grifo may not have value in the eyes of a collector. But it has immeasurable value to me. It reminds me that what we treasure most are not the grand possessions, but the simple ones charged with love and memory. It reminds me that inheritance is not just about wealth, but about stories, values, and identity.

And it reminds me that the legacy we leave will likely live on not in the things we think are important, but in the ordinary objects that become extraordinary because they carry our love.

So perhaps the real question is not, “What is the most valuable thing you own?” but, “What is the most treasured thing you hold?” For me, the answer is easy. It is a little blue Iso Grifo, cream interior, battered by time, but radiant with meaning.