My Aunt told me a story when we were sitting shiva for Dad - they had been talking about what the worse thing that could befall them could possibly be. She said something predictable about the bank losing all their money. His response was "that my sons would not know how to say Kaddish for me".
I have always found this a fascinating reply; Dad wasn't a particularly religious man in the traditional sense of the word; the last Shabbat I spent with him; his last Shabbat, he turned down an Aliyah to the Torah at my cousin's Bar Mitzva on the grounds that he wasn't worthy of it - he asked that it be given to me instead. He was very worthy of it - aware of where he had come from and making sure that we had an appropriate education. I had the last laugh that Shabbat - we gave him an Aliyah at Mincha instead - no arguments that time!
Today, nine years after he passed away, my brother and I said Kaddish for Dad at two different Minyanim in Jerusalem where we have made our homes. I'm sure that he is looking down with pride at the lives we have built and our various accomplishments (in between fleecing various angels at poker).
If you're reading today, on this cold, wet evening, please pour yourself a Scotch (Glenlivet if you have - his favourite) and raise a glass.