The night before the Fourth of July, I stayed late at the office, pretending I had work to do. Truth was, I didn’t want to face another lonely holiday in the city. But when I received a call from a lawyer about my foster sister Cynthia’s will, everything changed.
Cynthia — the one who used to sneak me candy in group homes and vowed to find her father — had passed away. And for some reason, she’d left something for me. I left the city with my grumpy little dog, Mr.
Jenkins, and drove through sweltering heat to attend Cynthia’s funeral. It was a small, forgotten affair. Just her former foster mom, her elderly grandma, and me.
Afterward, I was handed an envelope. Inside was a letter and a DNA test — Cynthia and I were full sisters. She’d discovered the truth while searching for her father.
She even left a photo of him holding two newborns, with a note: “My girls.”
Cynthia never got to meet him. Pneumonia claimed her before she could. But the photo had a café name, and I recognized it.
I found my way back to that suburb and, eventually, to our father. He looked older, worn by grief and guilt. But his eyes — those were Cynthia’s eyes.
And mine too. He cried when I told him. “I thought I was giving you a better life,” he said.
We visited Cynthia’s grave together and promised to start again. That night, we grilled burgers in his backyard. For the first time, I had family.
Real family.
