A Forgotten Letter from Patrick Mahomes’s Grandfather Reveals an Unbelievable Family Past

The rain tapped gently against the window of Patrick Mahomes’ home in Westlake, Texas, as he rummaged through a stack of old boxes in the attic. He had always been curious about his family’s past, but between practices, games, and interviews, he’d never found the time to dig deeper. That night, a rare free evening gave him the chance.

The boxes were a mishmash of memorabilia: high school yearbooks, his father’s faded baseball jerseys, dusty photo albums. One box, labeled in black marker as “Granddad’s Things,” caught his eye. Patrick felt a twinge of guilt. He’d never really known his grandfather, who had passed away when Patrick was just a baby.

His father, Pat, didn’t talk much about him either. Inside, amid brittle newspaper clippings and old ticket stubs, Patrick found an envelope yellowed with age, sealed and addressed in an elegant, old-fashioned script: “To my grandson. When he is ready.” Patrick’s heart skipped a beat. Carefully, he opened the letter. The handwriting was neat but shaky.

“Patrick,” it began. “There are things you need to know about me, about your father, and about the sacrifices made to give you the life you live now.” A shiver ran through him. Who was his grandfather really? What had he done or endured that had shaped the Mahomes family? As the rain picked up outside, Patrick settled into an old armchair, determined to read every word.

The letter’s tone was both proud and vulnerable. “I was not always the man you’ve heard about,” it continued. “I had dreams bigger than the small Texas town I grew up in, but circumstances forced my hand.” It spoke of World War II, a steel mill in Pittsburgh, and the struggle to provide for his family while hiding a secret that could have changed everything.

Patrick’s eyes widened. A secret? He thought he knew the Mahomes family history—his father Pat’s baseball career, his own meteoric rise in the NFL, the values that had guided them. But this letter hinted at something deeper, more personal. Downstairs, Brittany called up to him, asking if he wanted dinner. Patrick’s stomach growled, but he couldn’t tear himself away.

The envelope had unlocked a mystery that threatened to reshape his understanding of who he was. He had to know more. Patrick woke early the next morning, the letter still weighing heavily on his mind. The house was quiet. Brittany was already up with the kids, preparing breakfast, the smell of bacon and pancakes drifting through the air.

But Patrick’s thoughts were elsewhere. The letter had left too many questions unanswered. What was the secret his grandfather had carried? How had it shaped his father, and ultimately him? He took a seat at the kitchen table, the letter spread out before him. Brittany placed a cup of coffee in front of him, her eyes filled with concern. “What’s on your mind?” she asked softly.

He hesitated, then told her about the letter, the steel mill, the war, and the secret. Brittany listened intently, her brow furrowing. “Maybe you should talk to your dad,” she suggested. “If anyone knows, it’s him.” Patrick nodded, knowing she was right. After breakfast, he dialed his father’s number.

Pat answered on the second ring, his voice warm but slightly guarded. “Hey, Patrick. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, Dad,” Patrick said. “I found a letter from Grandpa. It’s got me thinking. There’s something he wanted me to know about his life, about a secret.” Pat was silent for a moment, the line heavy with unspoken words. Finally, he sighed.

“Your grandfather was a complicated man,” he began. “He worked in that mill for decades. Did everything he could to put food on the table, but there were things he never told anyone, not even me.”
“What kind of things?” Patrick pressed.
Pat’s voice lowered. “He fought in the war, but he didn’t come back the same. I think he carried guilt. He didn’t talk much about it. But sometimes, when he’d had a few drinks, he’d mention a friend, a man named Thomas. He’d say, ‘I should have been there for him.’ I never knew what that meant.”

Patrick’s mind raced. A friend, a betrayal, or something more?
“He also, well, he faced a lot of prejudice back then,” Pat continued. “Even though he worked hard, some people never gave him a chance. That left a mark. I think that’s why he was so determined to make sure I succeeded, so that you’d have opportunities he never did.”

Patrick felt a lump in his throat. He’d always admired his father’s drive, his quiet strength. Now he saw that it came from somewhere deeper—a legacy of pain and resilience that had been passed down. “Thanks, Dad,” he said. “I think I need to find out more. I owe it to Grandpa and to you.”

After they hung up, Patrick stared at the letter again, his fingers tracing the fading ink. The mention of Thomas gnawed at him. Who was this man, and what had happened between them? He knew one place he might find answers: the old steel mill in Pittsburgh, where his grandfather had worked, where memories of that past might still echo in the shadows.

Determined, Patrick booked a flight. If the letter had taught him anything, it was that understanding his family’s story meant more than any Super Bowl ring. It was about roots, identity, and the sacrifices that had made him who he was. As the sun set that evening, Patrick stood by the window, suitcase packed. The journey to Pittsburgh wouldn’t just be a trip through miles and time. It would be a journey into the heart of the Mahomes family legacy.

The plane descended over Pittsburgh on a gray, overcast afternoon. Patrick stared out the window, the skyline marked by steel bridges and old brick smokestacks—a stark contrast to the modern comforts of his Texas home. It felt like stepping back in time.

He rented a modest car and drove straight to the old steel mill on the outskirts of town. Though the plant had long since closed, its rusted gates and weathered sign, “Riverside Steelworks,” stood like sentinels guarding the past. Patrick parked and stepped out, his breath misting in the cool air. A few men were gathered at a nearby café, its chipped sign promising hot coffee and local history.

Patrick ordered a coffee and asked the barista if he knew anything about the old mill. The man, in his late 60s, nodded. “Worked there myself back in the day,” he said. “Place was tough, but we made a living.” Patrick explained who he was and why he’d come. The barista’s eyes widened. “You’re Pat Mahomes’ boy? I knew your granddad, Charlie. Good man. Quiet, but everyone respected him.”

“Did he ever mention a man named Thomas?” Patrick asked.
The barista’s expression darkened. He lowered his voice. “Yeah, Thomas Carter. They were close, closer than brothers, some said. They worked side by side, even shared a place for a while. But then the accident happened.”
Patrick’s heart pounded.
“Accident?”
The barista hesitated. “It was a boiler explosion. Two men were trapped. Your grandfather made it out. Thomas didn’t. Charlie blamed himself. Said he should have been there—should have saved him. Changed him. That did. He never really forgave himself.”

A cold chill settled over Patrick. His grandfather’s guilt, carried like an invisible burden for decades, had shaped the man he’d become. It explained the tone of the letter, the regret, the need for his grandson to understand. Patrick thanked the man and left the café. The sky had darkened and rain began to fall, soft at first, then harder, drumming on the car roof. He sat there for a while, staring at the mill’s silhouette against the darkening sky.

Memories of his own struggles flooded back—every interception, every doubter who said he’d never make it as an NFL quarterback. He thought of his father’s sacrifices, of his grandfather’s secret pain. Their struggles had paved his path, and he had never truly seen it.

That evening, he found a small family-run motel on the edge of town. The room was plain but clean, with a view of the old mill in the distance. Patrick pulled out the letter again, the words now heavier than ever. He understood now. The secret wasn’t just a tragedy. It was a lesson. His grandfather had carried that pain so Pat could succeed. And Pat had carried it so Patrick could thrive.

The next morning, Patrick stood at the edge of the mill’s fence. He closed his eyes and whispered a quiet prayer for Thomas Carter, a man he’d never met but whose life had shaped his own in ways he’d never known. He made a promise to himself that day: he would honor his grandfather’s legacy, not just with trophies or accolades, but with gratitude.

The strength of a family wasn’t just in its triumphs. It was in the scars that taught them how to persevere. As he left Pittsburgh, the rain eased, and a sliver of sun broke through the clouds. Patrick felt lighter, ready to carry the lessons of the past forward into his own life and to share them with the world.

Back in Texas, the sun shone bright through the kitchen window as Patrick placed the old letter—creased, yellowed, but now a cherished treasure—beside a fresh cup of coffee. The kids were at school, and Brittany bustled about, humming softly as she prepared dinner. For the first time in days, Patrick felt a sense of peace. He had returned from Pittsburgh carrying more than a family secret. The conversations with the café owner and the quiet moments spent at the mill had given him clarity. His grandfather’s life was more than just a tragedy. It was a testament to resilience, sacrifice, and the quiet heroism of ordinary men.

That evening, Pat came over for dinner. They sat out back under the warm Texas dusk, a soft breeze carrying the scent of rosemary from Brittany’s garden. Patrick shared everything he’d learned—the friendship with Thomas Carter, the accident, the burden of guilt. Pat’s eyes were misty as he listened. “I never knew the details,” he admitted. “I just knew he carried something heavy. I think he tried to shield us from it.”

Patrick nodded. “He did. And now I understand why you were always so determined, why you pushed me so hard, but always with love.”
Pat smiled sadly. “I just wanted you to have choices, Patrick. Choices I didn’t always have, and that came from him.” They sat in silence, the weight of generations settling between them like an unspoken promise. Brittany brought out plates of grilled salmon and roasted vegetables, her warmth grounding them both.

As they ate, Patrick thought about how different his life might have been had his grandfather’s story stayed buried in that envelope. Later that night, after Pat had gone home and the house had quieted, Patrick sat at his desk. He opened his laptop and began typing. The words came slowly at first, then with a steady rhythm. He wrote about his grandfather’s steel mill days, about Thomas Carter, about the accident. He wrote about the pain of loss and the burden of guilt that had forged a family legacy of perseverance. He wrote about how his own struggles—missed throws, injuries, criticism—paled in comparison to the sacrifices of those who came before him.

As he typed, he realized that sharing this story wasn’t just about honoring the past. It was about inspiring others to embrace the threads of their own histories, to see the strength and scars. When he finished, he closed the laptop, a sense of calm washing over him. Outside, the moonlight spilled across the yard, silvering the grass and the old football his kids loved.

The next day, Patrick posted the story on his social media, sharing it with millions. The response was immediate. Messages of gratitude, of connection, of shared stories from fans whose families had also carried silent burdens. Patrick knew he had done more than share a letter. He had opened a door for himself, his family, and countless others to the truth that our stories, even the painful ones, are what bind us.

His grandfather’s secret had become a bridge, linking past to present, forging a legacy that would live on. And as Patrick laced up his cleats for practice, he felt a quiet strength, knowing he was not just playing for himself, but for every Mahomes who had come before him, and every fan who would now see that greatness was built, not given.

How Did Patrick Mahomes’ Grandfather Die? All About Chiefs QB’s Grandparent’s Health Struggles

You know what they say—“When it rains, it pours.” And the same can be said about the Patrick Mahomes family right now. Just five days after a humiliating Super Bowl LIX loss, there’s more bad news for the Mahomes household. But this time, it’s not related to gridiron horrors. It’s something more personal that no one probably saw it coming so soon. Randi Mahomes‘ father, on Friday morning, tragically passed away, leaving the Mahomes in a state of shock and disbelief.

Patrick Mahomes’ mom took to her Instagram to pen an emotional message for her father, saying goodbye for one last time, “Hard to find the words of holding my father’s hand as he goes to Heaven. I know he’s in a better place. I love you, daddy.” Besides letting her father embark on a journey to heaven. Randi also added a bible verse at the end of her post to praise her father’s commitment to life, “Well done, good and faithful servant! Matthew 25:23.

That heartbreaking post also had Randy Martin sitting on a sofa with his two grandsons, Patrick and Jackson. And the one that can actually make anyone teary was Randi’s final snap. There, she kept her hand beside her father’s ailing arm. That picture depicts how brutal old age can be. And how it can take a toll on children who never want to see their parents grow old. But the real question is, how did Randy die? Considering Mahomes grandfather’s actual illness was never revealed. It’s difficult to predict the disease he had at the time of his death.

It could probably be a terminal illness or something else that we may never know. Like for the first time, when Randi announced her father’s deteriorating health, she kept the illness hidden while asking for prayers. “Prayer warriors, please pray for my daddy. He is in the hospital and is not well.” At one point, Randi’s prayers actually got answered. Her father was released from the hospital. But before last year ended, Randy was again in hospital, fighting for his life. Then, last month, yet another concerning update caught the Chiefs Kingdom by surprise. Randi revealed on her Instagram stories, “My dad is in hospice, and I’m lost for words.” Hospice was probably the final blow to Randy’s recovery, which never saw the daylight.

Even Randi herself claimed days before the Super Bowl that her father was only sticking around to see Pat win another Super Bowl. “I know that it has meant a lot to him. I think he’s hanging on because he wants to see his grandson do something incredible. or at least just let him play. He must be so proud.” Well, that final chapter of Randy seeing his grandson didn’t really go according to plan. Like we all know how embarrassing and humiliating it was to see Patrick Mahomes in Super Bowl LIX. But right now, it’s Randi who needs our support. She has now lost both her father and mother in the space of two years.

Randi Mahomes remembers her mother, Debbie Bates Martin

At age 72, Randi lost her mother, Debbie Bates Martin, back in April 2023. She even took some to remember her last season before the Chiefs took on the 49ers in Super Bowl LVIII. Randi gave a small tribute to her on Instagram, writing, “Momma, I know you are cheering today from Heaven. I miss you every single day..I can hear you yelling Go, Patrick.” Well, her grandson did go ahead and won his third Super Bowl by seeing off the Niners 25-22.

But that wasn’t the only time Randi remembered her mother. While celebrating her birthday, Randi got her hands on some photos from her childhood. And just like every time she hopped on Instagram to share the moment with her followers, “Celebrating 49 today. Taking a stroll down memory lane with these throwback photos and feeling so thankful for my amazing mom and all she put into celebrating birthdays growing up.”

At this time, we should all stand beside Randi and give as much support and warmth as we can. Although it might not be enough, like the love of parents, maybe going through her messages can put a smile on Randi’s face in this tough time.