His biological children—people I had lived alongside but never truly known—blocked the doorway to the lawyer’s office. One of them didn’t even look me in the eye when they said it.
The words hit harder than I expected. I felt my face burn, my throat tighten. For a second, I considered arguing. I could have reminded them who drove me to school every morning, who taught me how to balance a checkbook, who stayed up all night when I had the flu. But I didn’t.
I nodded once, turned around, and walked away.
On the bus ride back to my apartment, I stared out the window and counted the stops so I wouldn’t cry in front of strangers. My chest ached with more than grief—it hurt with dismissal, with being erased. By the time I reached my place, I collapsed onto the couch and let the tears come quietly, the way I’d learned to do growing up.
Three days later, my phone rang.
It was the lawyer.
His voice was careful, urgent. He said there had been an “emergency” and that I needed to come in immediately.
I thought something had gone wrong. I thought maybe there was a mistake.
When I arrived, the office was empty and silent. The lawyer motioned for me to sit, then disappeared into the back room. When he returned, he was holding a small wooden box, worn smooth at the edges.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
Inside were photographs—us standing by a river with crooked fishing poles, him laughing while I held a fish too small to brag about. There were school certificates I didn’t even remember bringing home, neatly stacked and carefully preserved. And then I saw the letters.
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